

















j0/fhy'y^2^ ^ <t ,.s5?\’^^ 



> 



*' '. ivi 0 \V ^ 'V*. " 


• vs 

.w 1^ ., -f*/ v» *>• MZW/y^^ ■>U ^ ® 



"i </ 





,0 




kO 




^ . o. a- ‘^*7 , 0 ' 

^ ^ ^ ^r. .-> ''a ^ 


^ ^ C> 








t^' ,'' ‘) O y o • < 

' ' '” O^ s' '.” '/^^'C' * “ ~ ° ’ \>'''' t ’ * "' 




_ v- ^ 

« V sV ^ 




'X' 7 > V V? ■^> 

V ' tv ‘S o>' ' ✓ 






tv <, s ^ 

"* '• -p V " 




r 

■ ' ■ o> s ' ” ‘ ° ’ v'"^ » ' • » ^ 
Vi- ^ 















CHAPTERS ON VIVES 




MRS. ELLIS, 

AUTHOR OP “mothers OP GREAT MEN.” 


NEW YORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

PRANKEIN SQUARE. 

1860 . 


Of cofi^ 






^ 898 , 


o 




K 


A 


ij> 


18438 


f 


PREFACE. 


To those who have seen much of human life, and 
have been intimately associated with its joys and sor- 
rows, there are few of our accepted aphorisms which 
appear less true than that all romance must necessarily 
cease after marriage. 

Granting, however, that married life does close the 
door upon many outward exhibitions of a romantic 
nature, it is still impossible to believe that, so far as 
the development of character is concerned, it is not 
rich in that higher order of interest which includes 
the exercise of principle, as well as the manifestation 
of feeling. It is true that the great depth and reality 
of this interest must lie — and, indeed, ought to lie — 
forever buried in the hearts which it most concerns ; 
yet there are floating on the surface of married life, 
and evident to all observers, such elements of hope 
and fear — of peace and strife — of upward and down- 
ward progress, as are well calculated to adorn the 
page of fiction with some degree of novelty in addi- 
tion to its truth. 

As a very slight sketch of this phase of human 
experience, particularly developing the character of 
woman, I have woven the following simple stories, 
not without hope that they may remind some of my 


IV 


PREFACE. 


own sex of their highest capabilities, and suggest, aj 
the same time, the almost unbounded extent to which 
they may be exercised for the welfare and happines^ 
of all with whom they are associated, as well as foi^ 
their own. S. S. E. - 


Rose Hill, May, 1860. 


ISABEL . 7 

SELF-DEVOTION . . .41 

FOREST FARM 97 

GEORGE MILBANK 219 

THE SECRET 259 





•it: ' 


- - • 'J^'^ '- ■ ■■■.V j™ 

'^‘T^.’,\^' 7 ', ■ -vv. w. ..■'•■ ^ 'C- * ■ • * • 

'jr. I • ■ . ''’’ * •' f’ ' ■■ 






' j m; ■■ ••• V 






•r <' ir ) 




m 


j' 


’. • r 


> 4 


h;.' - . ■ • . u 


t - 






♦■ »• 


* • ♦ k- 

-< • 


• t 




•< M 


vr. “• '•■ 


I 

b. < 




1 






- \£ 
’■• *• 'dr 


. * ■- 




<!. JV 


Ni-. 


v.)^ 


■ V. 







• 

♦ * 

c • 


% 

^ » 

<-• k ^ 

• -0 

*V -^*' 

• • • / : 


'* # • 


■ 



tr- . 


1 ♦ 




.1 




V ■ ' J- •' ■■’ 




• 'rv^i ' 

..'r 


< > 



‘I, 


r > 


ii<y ' • 

ihs ■ 

'■ 1 ^ !»• • vS?^ • 








?>/ •; -’J 



•T* 


. ' A. 



f 4 


iV 


J -A' . ' 4 ^-^ ' » , 

‘ ^ 

■ ►,/- . •'- J 


, \ 


I , 




,. frrrT 


'Tv 


# i 

r'i./k. 


' 4 >, k*] 

I ^1 ti 

a •> •-ili’f* 

•^ • . f ^ • rir> . * . 

. -• ' \\ 




-, ^ 


/: 


.'•ij ■ u^WUBSOm' 'i 


'J 


^ ,v 

. *'.■.■■■ 




iZ- t 



CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


ISABEL. 

There are old-fashioned English homes which never 
look so lovely as in the dreamy stillness of a summer’s 
afternoon, just at that hour when the shadows first be- 
gin to creep in lengthened lines along the grass, and the 
hill-sides, sloping westward, are bathed in liquid gold. 
With the soft deep glow of this quiet hour there is some- 
thing peculiarly harmonious in our broad homesteads, 
and sweep of cultivated lands, with rich umbrageous 
trees, and velvet pastures, and gentle billows of green 
corn swelling with the breeze. There is something in 
all this more harmonious with the hour than in those 
more gorgeous scenes which the traveler may boast of 
having seen, 'while in the secret chambers of his memo- 
ry he keeps enshrined the picture of his English home, 
to be visited when his soul is tired with splendor and 
excitement, and pines for the greenness, the freshness, 
and repose of some valley among gently-swelling hills, 
where the blackbird warbles and the lambs play undis- 
turbed among the yellow furze, and, best of all, where 
his own feet have trod in happy childhood. 

On a smooth green terrace, stretching along one side 
of a noble mansion, just at this glowing time of day, sat 
a young English lady, in perfect keeping with the scene 
which spread before and around ; her face, complexion, 
form, and mien constituting the noblest part of that uni- 


8 


CHAPTEES ON 'WIVES. 


versal harmony, of 'which her voice, 'when she spoke, 'was 
the sweetest and the happiest note. 

It might well be happy, for she had been caroling to a 
rosy child, who echoed back his mother’s thrilling laugh 
with playful mimicry, until the merriment became real, 
and nurse, and child, and mother made that quiet garden 
ring with musical delight. 

But the precious hours were passing, and the time 
was drawing near when Isabel Grant (for that was the 
lady’s name) was wont to seat herself, Avhenever the 
weather permitted, on a certain seat at the end of the 
highest terrace, from whence she could see a turn in the 
road leading up to the house. How women can antici- 
pate ! It wanted yet three quarters of an hour to the 
appointed time. Isabel half fancied her watch must be 
in fault, so slowly had the hands crept onward since last 
she looked at it. Well, it was pleasant to sit there at 
all events, the view was so rich, and wide, and beautiful, 
and perhaps he would be returning earlier than usual 
that day. So she sent the nurse away to feed the swans, 
and, folding her white arms in an attitude of patience, 
sat and gazed. Little patience, indeed, would have been 
needed to gaze on such a scene, had there not been some 
event anticipated, some arrival expected, or some object 
looked for, of such brightness and such interest to her as 
to throw all others into shade. 

Isabel was only looking for her husband — only ! — and 
he had been no farther than London, a distance of little 
more than twenty miles. There could be no romance in 
this — perhaps no poetry, only that wherever human love 
is deepest, strongest, purest, there must be poetry, even 
though it may find no utterance in verse. 

Poetry there certainly was in Isabel’s own face and 
figure, though all unconsciously so to herself; for she 
was no genius, and, what is a little more rare, she was 


ISABEL. 


9 


no coquette — never had been ; rather a noble, liberal, 
equal-tempered, true English gentlewoman — the finest 
type of woman. 

Isabel had been married to Captain Grant rather more 
than two years. This was her first summer spent at 
home, their long tour on the Continent having kept them 
abroad until the previous summer was past. During the 
course of this tour they had visited all the favorite places 
of accustomed resort, and Isabel had heartily admired 
and enjoyed them all. But her home — her fine old En- 
glish home — looked lovelier to her, on her return, than 
any spot of earth she had ever visited — not the less so 
that she was herself a true Englishwoman at heart, 
prone to settle down into a home as a kind of nest, or 
rather a place to take root in ; for to such a disposition 
it is absolutely necessary to take root in order to grow 
and flourish. There must be a w^arm and genial root- 
place too — good soil in which the fibres necessary for 
vigorous growth may strike deep, and take lasting hold. 
Those who find their happiness in hurrying from place 
to place, and know no health of mind or body without 
perpetual change, can understand little of this deep root- 
hold, or the comfort and support which it afibrds. It is, 
in fact, not necessary to them. They are the rambling 
jilants of the human garden, and can hang their lighter 
tendrils from bough to bough, or flaunt their blossoms 
in sun and breeze without asking of the earth any more 
substantial sustenance. 

Of a very different stamp from these was the young 
wife of Captain Grant. The first impression made by 
her appearance was that of a fine woman — majestic, yet 
lovely ; tender in her affections, yet firm in her resolve. 
With hair, and eyes, and complexion of that character 
which we generally understand by pure Saxon, she had 
a noble contour of head and profile, which would scarce- 
A2 


10 


CnAPTEES ON WIVES. 


ly have been out of place among the finest models of 
classic beauty ; and her neck and shoulders were almost 
queenly. Yet, with all this, there was that homish and 
domestic look about her, that cheery laugh which sets 
others laughing, and a kind expression in her soft blue 
eyes, which altogether made her so much more attract- 
ive than fearful, that all who dwelt beneath her roof, 
even down to the most obscure dependent, felt that they 
had a friend in their young mistress, whose kind consid- 
eration they believed in as implicitly as in her sound 
judgment and good sense. 

Great, of course, had been the wonder of the domes- 
tics living in the family as to what kind of wife the dear 
young gentleman, their beloved master, would bring 
home. They knew that in him they had the best of 
masters — too good, they almost feared, to be mated with 
equal goodness. Thus they had feared, and not unrea- 
sonably, that the pleasant easy rule they had enjoyed 
under the captain would be exchanged for something 
far less pleasant under a mistress. Nor was it immedi- 
ately that their fears subsided; for Isabel, with all her 
gentleness and love of peace, was still a disciplinarian, 
and did not hesitate to assume at once that just and true 
authority which she felt to be her right. Soon, how- 
ever, all became convinced that her wise government 
was best for all ; and, before Isabel had guided the reins 
of domestic management for many w^eeks, every member 
of the household had learned to love her more than she 
w^as feared. 

The consciousness of this love, and the perfect trust 
w’hich, in return, she reposed in those around her, added 
no small amount to that pure contentment which beamed 
almost without a cloud from Isabel’s countenance, bright- 
ening the clear beauty of her eyes, and illuminating her 
smile with something more than the gladness of happy 


ISABEL. 


11 


youth. Her very step was that of one w^ho treads the 
earth without a sense of fear. Fear of personal danger 
there Avas no need of to one so well and faithfully sup- 
ported. But those other fears — fears of being deceived, 
let down, disappointed — fears of being unjustly or un- 
kindly treated — such were the fears that Isabel never 
knew ; and thus it was that her step, though graceful, 
was firm as faith itself. 

Many fears there are which come naturally and neces- 
sarily Avith affliction ; but these also Isabel had never 
known. She had been early left an orphan, scarcely 
conscious of the loss of either parent, and had been as 
tenderly nurtured in the family of an uncle, who was her 
guardian, as if she had been his own child. Her inherit- 
ance, like her education, had been liberal. She was apt 
to learn, and generous to bestow ; equal in her temper 
too, self-possessed, loving justice and truth supremely, 
with no tendency to caprice or wayAvardness ; so that 
it Avas scarcely possible that Isabel should have ene- 
mies ; and being, by the nature of her circumstances as 
well as her own character, always plentifully supplied 
Avith friends, she had known no sorroAV beyond the 
causeless tears of childhood, or those imaginary griefs 
which only serve to heighten the enjoyment of a happy 
youth. 

Something of this equanimity and contentment might 
be attributed, no doubt, to an excellent physical consti- 
tution. The perfect smoothness of Isabel’s finely-devel- 
oped forehead, the clear untainted blue of her large soft 
eyes, and the rich blush which tinted but never stained 
her cheeks, all indicated that purity of blood and even- 
ness of pulse which belong to perfect health ; while her 
figure, someAvhat beyond the middle size, yet softly and 
delicately formed, was so well proportioned, upright, and 
true to all the purposes of life and action, that it Avas 


12 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


evident it had known but little of the ills that flesh is 
heir to. 

Isabel’s uncle, a naval officer, had all the strictly hon- 
orable notions of an old-fashioned English gentleman, 
blended with the warm afiections of a kindly heart. His 
theory of discipline was strict, his practice somewhat 
lax, for his tenderness was easily excited ; and although 
his temper was hasty, and his reproofs sometimes severe, 
he was always open to the appeals of affection, and more 
prone to pity than to punish, whatever the offense might 
be. The character of his wife was cast in a very differ- 
ent mould. From her Isabel had learned much, though 
always leaning to her uncle for that tenderness which 
her own nature, like his, seemed unable to do without. 

If ever Isabel experienced the sensation of fear it was 
toward her aunt. Lady Manners ; but even in this case 
the sensation only served to exercise a wholesome disci- 
pline over the joyous elasticity of her youth. And from 
the same source, in all probability, there came that self- 
government, as well as that courteous and considerate 
manner toward others, for which Isabel was so remark- 
able. With her uncle alone she would scarcely have ac- 
quired these valuable attainments. His buoyant nature 
was too easily overcome by her affectionate playfulness ; 
nor was there always any certainty that he would not 
himself be the first to break through whatever rules he 
might have laid down for her conduct. With her aunt 
it was widely different. Even the religion of Lady Man- 
ners partook of the formal and rigid character which 
marked her own life. But then it was religion — not 
merely the form, but the reality; and the self-denying 
consistency with which it was maintained secured for 
the admiral’s lady the sincere esteem of all to wffiom her 
integrity and worth were sufficiently known. 

That Isabel loved her aunt she never permitted her- 


ISABEL. 


13 


self for a moment to doubt ; and yet there were times, 
perhaps, when walking through the noble hall of her 
own mansion, or tracing at will the garden walks, or 
snatching up rare and precious flowers, or following out 
any other girlish impulse of the moment, when a kind of 
joyousness came over her, connected with a sense of lib- 
erty which she knew must owe its happy existence to 
the fact that her aunt was not there. Still Isabel loved 
her, she was quite sure, and most especially now that 
they were separated, when all the kind solicitude be- 
stowed upon her childhood came back to her memory 
without the stern denial or the absolute command. 

The tide of enjoyment would never roll so high if 
wholly unmoved by any counter influence; and Isabel 
was prepared by these circumstances, as well as by her 
own nature, fully to appreciate every height and depth 
of that perfect happiness which now seemed to have fall- 
en to her lot. Sometimes it seemed to her too much — 
almost more than human nature was calculated to sus- 
tain. Yet what could she spare of all those treasures 
which Heaven had so bountifully jioured into her lap? 
Not her child, most assuredly ; nor yet her gallant sailor 
husband. She would almost have laughed had any idea 
presented itself of losing them^ so impossible would such 
a calamity have appeared. 

To some women the profession of a naval officer would 
have suggested danger; but Isabel had been used to 
that profession in her uncle’s case, and to her its various 
contingencies of storm and calm, its varieties of scene 
and climate, had been so familiarly discussed from her 
early childhood, that she thought no more of danger 
connected with life at sea than with any other adventur- 
ous career, such as she had learned to look upon as the 
fitting course of a high-souled English gentleman; be- 
sides which, all Europe was at peace just then. There 


14 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


was nothing to apprehend on that ground. A little 
pleasant cruising, perhaps a year at some foreign station, 
to which she might accompany her husband, were the 
only serious changes which Isabel had at all anticipated ; 
and to her imagination, in consequence of what her uncle 
had told her, a well-built ship of war was as safe as any 
habitation on land — the admiral thought more so. 

In Isabel’s own nature, too, there was that strong 
tendency to repose and trust which it takes many ad- 
verse winds and cruel storms to overthrow. Perhaps 
she was a little, just a little too much disposed to let 
things take their course, and to believe that course would 
be not only a right, but a pleasant one. At all events, 
she never courted trouble, nor met her griefs half way. 
A woman of her type, situated in a lower sphere, would 
have been called a comfortable wmman ; but there were 
loftier elements in Isabel’s character than could have 
been fitly classed under this head. She was happy — 
profoundly, religiously happy — at peace with all the 
world, because her soul was at peace with God. She 
loved his creatures with a true heart of tenderness, 
w^hich had first melted under the conviction of that in- 
finite love that was breathed out in agony upon the 
cross. Isabel was a true believer, as she was a true 
wife, true mother, true in all things. ^^”0 dogmas of 
skepticism disturbed her equal mind. To find grounds 
for doubting what the Bible told her afibrded her nei- 
ther interest nor pleasure. It had been the book of her 
childhood, cherished all through her youth, but never so 
profoundly valued as now that she had other lives com- 
mitted to her care, other hopes to keej) alive besides her 
own, other feet to endeavor to allure into the path of 
peace. 

With this deep foundation for her happiness, Isabel 
looked around lier on that summer’s afternoon, and, in 


ISABEL. 


15 


her quiet hut intense way of dwelling upon what she 
loved, contemplated that visible superstructure of pros- 
perity and enjoyment which made her home a paradise 
to her. So still Avas every thing just then in earth and 
air, that she could hear, far down the garden Avalks be- 
side the fish pond, the merry laughter of the nurse, and 
the little mimic call of the child to the swans, and then 
the crowing delight Avith Avhich he saw them snatch the 
crumbs cast rather discursively from his little hand ; and 
the young mother longed to spring from the terrace, and 
run doAvn to share this joyous entertainment, but her 
steps Avere checked by the deeper joy in anticipation. 
She Avas never absent from that spot exactly at the time 
AA'hen the carriage Avhich conveyed her husband home 
AA^as expected to make the turn in the road Avhich she 
could see from that part of the grounds, and that alone. 
So soon as it came in sight she left the terrace, and hast- 
ening down to a low med door into a shady walk through 
the shrubbery, there met her husband Avith a never-fail- 
ing Avelcome on her lips. He also kneAV hoAV he Avould 
be Avatched, and how met ; and, true as time, he never 
failed to come almost at the appointed moment, entering 
by the med door, and leaving the carriage to go empty 
on its Avay. 

Only one thing caused Isabel the slightest trouble on 
these occasions ; it Avas that trick of beginning to expect 
her husband so much too soon. But then she neA^er 
AA^earied of the scene before her, especially as the shad- 
ows lengthened, and the Avestern sky began to gloAV 
Avith deeper radiance. On this afternoon there was a 
glory about the sun’s descending which she thought sur- 
passed all she had eA^er seen. . 

“ Happy omen of a bright to-morroAV,” Isabel said to 
herself as she directed her eyes once more to the road, 
and then, beholding nothing there, looked away into the 


16 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


far distance, where woods, and fields, and hedge-row 
trees all blended into that exquisite purple which is at 
the same time blue with ethereal tinting, and brown 
with rugged stems of trees, and fallow fields, and cot- 
tage roofs covered with time-worn thatch. What makes 
that marvelous coloring of the distance, even in a level 
country, beautiful ? Who shall say ? And yet how many 
eyes gaze on it admiringly, some soothed, and some en- 
chanted — all wooed and won by the wonderful harmony 
with which it comes between us and the sky, partaking 
both of earth and heaven — Nature’s own look of tender, 
loving invitation, when she bids us come onward, and 
ever onward, where earth is etherealized, and heaven 
brought down, and where we shall realize the true per- 
fection of living ! 

Isabel, gazing on that aerial distance, thought it very 
beautiful j but to her there were nearer beauties which 
she better loved. In one sense she loved all; but hers 
was a nature to gather in, close to her loving heart, all 
that she held dearest. Thus her contemplations were 
more attracted to that which was familiar and near, than 
general or distant ; and thus she loved a garden, per- 
haps, more than a landscape. All its individual flowers ; 
its rare and beautiful shrubs; its shadowy trees, and 
winding walks, and stately terraces ; its fountains whis- 
pering their sweet music amid the hum of bees and 
chirp of flitting birds — all these, even the minutest, Isa- 
bel loved to have around her in richest glory and per- 
fection, and in each she found a distinct and peculiar de- 
light. 

All animal life, too, had its charm for Isabel, as it al- 
ways has to such natures. Her favorite dog was not 
discarded for her child, but held his place beside her, 
even on the terrace, where he, too, waited with eager 
anticipation for his master’s coming. Nor was the avi- 


ISABEL. 


17 


ary less enjoyed, now that she could visit it with that 
young Titan in her arms, who would have clutched the 
various inmates if he could, and crushed their little lives 
out with one grasp. 

As the young mother gazed from the terrace, she was 
far from being insensible to what was going on in the 
fields and pastures lying near the outskirts of the gar- 
dens. She had her favorite cattle, as well as her horse, 
and she saw in the distance the cow-boy driving home 
the herd, as she thought, with much unnecessary harsh 
treatment and haste ; and while she knit her fair brows, 
looking intently in that direction, she prepared in her 
own mind a lecture for the boy, who was a new inmate 
of the farm, and did not understand the kind and benefi- 
cent rule under which he had come to serve. 

Isabel was deeply occupied with this scene (for she 
could not endure cruelty or oppression under any form) 
when suddenly, to her astonishment, and before she had 
time to turn her head, two manly arms were clasped 
around her neck, and a cheek was pressed to hers whose 
touch was too familiar not to be recognized in a moment 
— too dear not to be always welcome. 

“Why, Archy,” exclaimed Isabel, as soon as she was 
able to disengage herself, “ how did you come ? I never 
saw the carriage, and yet — ” 

“ Ah ! you could not help looking at the cows, and so 
forgot the carriage,” said a fine manly voice. 

Isabel declared it was not so. She said she had only 
one eye for the cows, the other for the road. But the 
mystery was soon explained. Captain Grant had not 
returned by the usual way. He had entered the house 
by an opposite door, and, passing directly through the 
hall, had approached his wife from behind, stealing gen- 
tly along the velvet turf, in order to startle her by his 
sudden entrance. Why he had come home in this way 


18 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


he did not explain, and his wife was too glad to have 
him near her to care much about this little change in his 
accustomed habits. 

And well indeed might the woman who was loved by 
such a man be pleased to have that noble figure seated 
near her, to look into his open face, where never cloud 
of shame, nor mystery, nor any thing, in fact, which man 
need hide, had left a shadow or a trace, and to know that 
those clear eyes, blue as the vault above, reflected no im- 
age so faithfully or so tenderly as her own. 

Captain, Archibald Grant was perhaps not, literally 
speaking, a handsome man. His features bore no resem- 
blance to any hero of classical celebrity, and he was far 
enough from looking sentimental, or even poetical. He 
had too much of the English sailor for that in his frank 
unstudied manner, in his hearty laugh, and in the play- 
ful boyish pranks which generally announced, beyond 
mistake, his happy and exciting return to home, and 
wife, and child. Yet with all this there was blended at 
times such tender and sweet kindness, such evident im- 
possibility of his doubting or thinking ill of any one in 
whom he had once believed, such glorious bravery of 
front and mien, that all who loved the captain — and they 
were nearly all who knew him — thought him one of the 
finest-looking men of their acquaintance, so agreeable, 
and at the same time sp noble, was the aspect which he 
bore. 

It was the custom with both parents, on the return of 
the captain, as soon as the first interchange of intelli- 
gence had taken place between them in the shrubbery 
walk — the first telling of any little private matters which 
concerned themselves— to hasten to find the child, wheth- 
er in the garden or the nursery, and so to witness to- 
gether, with delighted admiration, what time had done 
for him during the six or eight hours of his father’s ab- 


ISABEL. 


19 


sence. Great and wonderful were the exploits which 
the nurse recounted on these happy occasions, for some- 
times even words had been spoken — what first and only 
child does not speak words before it is three months 
old ? — or other manifestations had to be described of re- 
markable intelligence, or singular development of preco- 
cious feeling. 

To-day, however, the captain sat still beside his wife 
upon the terrace seat — very still, and often looking away. 
He did not even ask about the boy ; and when his wife 
inquired if he was tired, or not quite well, he started, 
looked round at her, and, instead of speaking, ran his 
fingers up among his rich brown hair, shredding it into 
wavy curls that fell at will about his brow and temples. 
This was a trick the captain had whenever he began to 
think, and especially when he was perplexed about any 
matter which he could not solve, or settle satisfactorily. 

Isabel cast a slight glance toward him once or twice. 
She was too wise to ask abruptly what was the matter, 
but waited, thinking there had been business at the Ad- 
miralty that day which had in all probability detained 
him, as well as sent him home with something more than 
usual to think about. She, however, did venture to pro- 
pose that they should go and see the child ; but her pur- 
pose was checked by a somewhat hasty “i^’ot yet,” and 
she had nothing for it but to wait. 

At length her husband started up suddenly, saying, 
“ Let us go into the library.” They both went without 
another word, and passing thi:ough the hall toward a 
large low room in a retired part of the house, entered, 
and shut the door. 

Isabel would have felt a thrill of fear just then if she 
had ever known what real trouble was; for who that 
has experienced much of life’s vicissitudes does not un- 
derstand that shutting to of a door, when there has been 


20 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


no accustomed need for privacy ? Still Isabel remained 
perfectly calm and self-possessed ; and not even when her 
husband took her hand and looked steadily into her face 
did she flinch, or tremble, or turn pale, or wear more than 
a look of simple inquiry on her face. 

“Isabel,” said her husband, speaking with a sudden 
gasp for breath, “ what do you think your uncle, the ad- 
miral, has been proposing to me ?” 

“I can not tell,” said Isabel. “Perhaps that you 
should be promoted.” 

The captain uttered a hasty expression, as if his wife’s 
guess was foolishly wide of the mark ; and then, with evi- 
dent efibrt, he began to tell her how the admiral and an- 
other gentleman of rank and influence, with whom he 
had lunched that day, had proposed to him to take the 
command of an exploring expedition, about to be sent 
out by government, to a part of the world where there 
was so much to be apprehended from peculiarities of 
climate, and other adverse circumstances, that no ordi- 
nary amount of courage and resolution was required on 
the part of those who engaged personally in the under- 
taking. 

All this took a good while to explain, and Isabel re- 
mained all the time perfectly silent. No tear dimmed 
her eye, no convulsive movement indicated that her emo- 
tions were gaining mastery over her habitual self-com- 
mand. At last her husband ceased, and as he pressed 
the hand he had been holding to his lips, it was evident 
that he waited for her to speak. 

To speak, however, was not so easy as to stand and 
gaze, and gaze, and see nothing — only to feel; and with 
excess of feeling Isabel had grown almost rigid, and so 
pale ! for the life-blood seemed all to have left the sur- 
face of her body, to circle in hot rushing waves around 
her heart. Her lips were blue as well as pale, and a 


ISABEL. 


21 


Strange livid hue was beginning to spread about her 
mouth and eyes, when, Avith a great effort, she cleared 
her voice to speak. 

“What do you say, my angel wife?” her husband 
asked ; “ for without your entire consent nothing will be 
done. I have said nothing, agreed to nothing. It was 
a mere suggestion made to me in perfect privacy ; and 
if I decline it altogether, no one besides your uncle will 
ever know. There will be no dishonor either in my de- 
clining, your uncle tells me — none whatever. N oav, Avhat 
do you say ?” 

“What is it?” asked Isabel. “Explain to me what 
it is.” 

Her husband did explain that a commander of the ex- 
pedition was required who knew the intricacies of coast 
and river, Avho understood the nature of the climate and 
the character of the people, and that he, Avhen serving 
under her uncle, had acquired this knoAvledge. The ad- 
miral, from his long acquaintance Avith that quarter of 
the world, had been consulted confidentially, and he Avas 
of the opinion that he could obtain the appointment for 
any one whom he might strongly recommend. Prudence 
was eminently necessary, as well as courage and resolu- 
tion ; and both gentlemen had done Captain Grant the 
honor to express their confidence in this respect. In 
fact, nothing seemed wanting but age, and that objec- 
tion they also seemed inclined to think might be over- 
come. 

“ Now, what do you say, my precious wife ?” the hus- 
band asked again. 

“ Do you wish to go ?” said Isabel. 

“ I wish,” he ansAvered, “ to do my duty to my sover- 
eign and my country. I have no relish for ease and 
idleness forever — you know that. I should have liked 
an expedition with more glory in it better — I dare say 


22 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


you know that too. Perhaps I should have liked fight- 
ing with an open foe better than contending against 
fever, and wild beasts, and savages as wild, but more 
barbarous. The servant, however, must not choose his 
work ; and how much soever I may wish the question 
had never been asked me whether I should be willing to 
go or not, it has been asked, you see, and I must answer 
it, only you must first ansTver me. What, then, do you 
say, my own Isabel ? As we stand here in the sight of 
God, what is it you bid me do 

“ I know only one answer,” replied Isabel. “ It is 
that England expects every man to do his duty, and 
every woman must do the same. Therefore it is that I 
say, Go.” 

No sooner had these Tvords been uttered, and so be- 
come in one sense irrevocable, than the husband threw 
himself with both arms upon the table before him, and, 
burying his face upon them, wept aloud. 

His wife did not approach him. She did not dare to 
trust her loving fingers among his beautiful hair, still 
less to attempt to press her lips to his forehead. She 
had done what she believed to be her duty, and she was 
not going to undo it now. Taking a little time to re- 
cover herself, she looked out from the low, shaded win- 
dow, beholding nothing, but gathering a little strength, 
for which she was the more solicitous, that her husband’s 
seemed to fail. Had both sunk at once during this cri- 
sis the result would have been inevitable ; the proposal 
must have been rejected — the project given up. But 
where man is weakest, woman finds her strength ; and 
Isabel came back after a few moments had elapsed, and, 
seating herself opposite her husband, said to him in a 
grave and business-like manner : 

“ I want to hear all about the expedition, Archy. I 
should think it might be very interesting, if not quite so 
glorious as we should like.” 


ISABEL. 


23 


In this manner Isabel pursued her inquiries with such 
minuteness and apparent interest, that her husband was 
completely beguiled ; and raising his head, and wiping 
away his tears, he began to explain to her all the particu- 
lars with which he himself was acquainted, thinking (good 
honest soul !) that his wife was profoundly attentive all 
the time. 

If Isabel Tvas acting^ may God forgive us all ! for often 
when we do our best, even up to the highest reach of 
heroism, we are but hiding what we feel; while all the 
virtue of what we do depends entirely upon our not ap- 
pearing to be exactly what we are. 

So Isabel went on with her inquiries as minutely as 
she could, until she saw that her husband was himself 
again ; and such was the natural energy of his character, 
his love of enterprise, his delight in action — such, in 
short, the manliness of his nature, that he soon recov- 
ered all his wonted animation, and became almost elo- 
quent in his descriptions of what he should have to meet 
with, what difficulties to encounter, what would devolve 
upon him personally in the discharge of a delicate and 
confidential trust, and what he should be likely to ac- 
complish in the space of three years^ which Avas the time 
specified for the expedition. 

Isabel had not heard any mention of time before, and 
she started at the sound of three years. Her husband 
did not observe it, and as she made no remark, he Avent 
on again in the same manner, talking himself into a state 
of high excitement, if not actually into a state of consid- 
erable delight at the prospect opening before him. It 
was not so, however, deep down in his heart. To him 
the ties of domestic life, the claims of Avife and child, 
Avere more than to most men. The reason why he Avent 
on talking in this way, never doubting but his Avife Avas 
feeling exactly as he did, was simply that he was a man 


24 


CHAPTEES OK WIVES. 


— yes, a fine, frank, noble-hearted, real man, with no pre- 
tense about him; one who could not but have shown 
what he was feeling, even to save the life of his wife. 

Such is the difference between man and woman. What 
folly to descant upon which is stronger or weaker, which 
is better or worse than the other, seeing they are only 
by nature so distinct in their characteristics in order 
that they may better fill their appointed place in the 
creation, each gifted with the qualifications necessary for 
their peculiar duties. 

That evening, so precious to Isabel, because all even- 
ings must now be drawing nearer toward the last, was 
one of the longest she had ever experienced. She did so 
much want to be alone, that she might let the bitterness 
of her soul gush out in great floods of tears. She would 
not weep now. Her husband was peculiarly sensitive to 
any outward manifestation of distress; so she scarcely 
permitted one tear to escape. She dared not, indeed, 
begin to weep, for all would be over then. Thus she 
walked in the garden and the grounds with her husband 
until the sun had set, and the large full moon had risen 
in a cloudless sky. She loitered with him about all their 
favorite spots ; she listened with him to the fountain’s 
musical fall; she wandered with him toward a shady 
copse where the nightingale on such soft dewy evenings 
was always heard ; she watched with him the slumber- 
ing shadows of the great old trees that stretched their 
paternal arms overhead ; she went with him through all 
the accustomed routine of little home enjoyments ; only 
one thing she could not do — she could not have the 
child brought in to them for his last “ good-night” be- 
fore he went to sleep, to be tossed in his pretty night- 
dress, laughing and screaming, up in his father’s arms. 
This was precisely what Isabel felt that she could not 
bear, so she made excuses to the nurse, and contrived 


ISABEL. 


25 


some other amusement, with which the happy child was 
satisfied, and went to sleep. “ Happy child !” thought 
Isabel, “he will never know his loss.” And then she 
thought, if any thing should happen to herself before her 
husband’s return — for she was expecting another addi- 
tion to her domestic cares — she dared not think of it 
now as an addition to her domestic enjoyments. 

Even when the night came Isabel dared not give vent 
to those pent-up tears which nature seemed to be telling 
her that she must weep before she could find rest ; and 
the restraint which she imposed upon herself was sufll- 
cient to drive away all sleep, even had such refreshment 
been otherwise attainable. But no ; sleep was impossi- 
ble, for the night only brought those vivid thoughts 
which seem to burn into the heart with a fierceness like 
that of fire. And as they burn they grow in magnitude 
and power, because there is no visible object, nor symbol 
of other griefs to compare them with ; and thus the dark- 
ness becomes intolerable, and we long for the dawning 
of another day, though that must bring us so much 
nearer to the doom we dread. 

Isabel was too well pleased to find her husband had 
fallen into sound and healthy sleep to attempt any conver- 
sation, which might otherwise have helped her through 
the long and silent hours — so long, though it was a sum- 
mer’s night, it seemed to her as if the morning would 
never break. At last she heard the small faint chirp of 
happy birds just awaking to their joy. Ah, what a sound 
is that to those who know no joy in waking ! Yet what 
a lesson it might teach ! For have not those very war- 
blers had their long winter to endure ? and how they do 
endure it, God only knows. Yet, sure as the return of 
the seasons appointed by the Sovereign of the universe, 
their pleasures come again, and that glad anthem of re- 
joicing hails the morning with as deep delight, as if they 
B 


26 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


had never known the cold and hunger of a world all leaf- 
less, homeless, barren, and desolate to them. 

There is a certain perverseness in heavy human grief 
which will not let us accept in alleviation the small com- 
forts that we might ; and Isabel refused to be consoled, 
or in any w^ay beguiled of her great sorrow by the war- 
bling of early birds ; not even when their voices swelled 
into a full chorus of exultation, and she could hear them 
answering from tree to tree, telling how this great and 
abundant world was rich, and beautiful, and glorious 
still. 

The softness of a grief subdued had not yet come to 
Isabel. She had not yet wept her tears of resignation. 
She had not yet prayed with her whole soul, for that she 
knew would bring tears. She was consequently far from 
feeling in unison with the song of happy birds, or with 
any other of those sweet influences which belong to the 
awakening of universal nature in the early dawn of a 
summer’s day. 

When at last the long-wished-for morning was fully 
come, the necessity for exertion lent a kind of strength 
to Isabel for what she had to do and to endure. Her 
husband was obliged to leave home for the day. He 
had to give his answer to the momentous question which 
had been put to him. His first waking impressions had 
not been favorable to the project. We often feel faint- 
hearted on aw^aking — especially faint-hearted about ex- 
changing the comforts of the home where we have slept 
so soundly, for inconveniences and dangers, which never 
look so repulsive as in the first view w^e take of them in 
the morning. 

Isabel knew that with her husband’s impulsive nature 
there was a tendency to reaction. She was prepared for 
this, and now she must arise and put the armor on, and 
face all difiiculties herself. She had thought of all this. 


ISABEL. 


27 


of almost every thing, during that long night. In a few 
hours she had passed through experience enough for 
years of ordinary life. Her great mental business had 
been to set her affections on one side, and her strong 
sense of duty on the other, and so decide as a Christian 
woman, though a wife and a mother, ought to decide. 
Thinking it possible that her first decision might have 
been too hasty (though something still told her it was 
right), she weighed the whole matter over again, exam- 
ining every consideration both for and against; and 
through and above all remained that solemn conviction 
upon which she had first spoken — spoken so sadly against 
herself. 

Whatever this trial might cost her, then, or whatever 
burden she might have to bear, Isabel’s mind was not 
distracted with doubts. She honored her husband too 
much to desire to see him condemned to a life of useless 
inaction, even if always by her side. She knew him to 
be peculiarly fitted, both by nature and habit, for the 
work which had been planned out for him. He had en- 
ergies and powers which she admired even more than 
his noble face and manly person — capabilities which she 
gloried in even more than in the alacrity of his bounding 
step when he sprang to meet her on returning home. 
Yes, there was a higher, deeper, holier love than that of 
mere possession which hallowed the feelings of the young 
wife — a loftier impulse which thrilled through her whole 
being, with that true ambition that knows no selfish 
alloy, and is satisfied with nothing short of the highest 
and the best. It was her husband’s highest and best, 
Isabel thought, to be employed on useful service for his 
country and mankind ; and thus it was that she arose, 
after that sad and solemn night, though weak in body, 
yet strong in the conviction that for her husband it was 
right to go. 


28 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


Sustained by this power, she was able, when he came 
down into the breakfast-room, to meet him with a calm 
and resolute expression of countenance ; and when, after- 
ward, he called her again into the library, and said he 
could not go without one more earnest consultation, she 
was prepared to find something to say in favor of the 
project, whatever objection to it he might bring for- 
ward. 

Captain Grant was astonished at the part which his 
wife took in this matter — astonished at what she said, 
and at her manner altogether. She looked, he thought, 
like one inspired. He had never seen her so before. 
He did not understand the woman he had married — few 
men do ; yet he was sensible of an influence such as he 
had no idea that any human being could exercise over 
him. If he had doubted before, it was impossible for 
him to doubt now. There must, he thought, be some- 
thing right, something almost imperative, where a wom- 
an so loving and so tender could act this firm and self- 
denying part. His own ardor would have been very 
weak that morning but for his wife. He had been think- 
ing of a deadly climate, fever, prostration of strength, 
and last, but not least, of an obscure, untended, and per- 
haps lingering death ; until, though he would have been 
the first to rush into the heat of open battle, his great 
heart actually quailed before the prospect which his 
imagination painted. 

“ You are afraid, Archy,” said Isabel, looking full into 
his face with her clear, steady eyes. 

“ Afraid ! Ho, Isabel, you know me better than to 
think that ; but I own I should like to die in a difierent 
way.” 

“Why should you die, my love? Ho man can have 
a better constitution than yours.” 

“Hay, I don’t expect to die, exactly; but, if there is 


ISABEL. 


29 


any thing in the world I am afraid of, it is swamp and 
fever.” 

“ You know one thing, Archy ?” 

“ What is that ?” 

“ That whether there is danger in the path of duty or 
not, there can be no real safety out of it.” 

“ You say right, my blessed wife. I will go.” 

“ Cheerfully?” 

“ Yes, cheerfully, too. Take my faithful promise with 
this kiss that you will never hear me talk in this way 
again.” 

Captain Grant was true to his promise. He rose up 
a strong man, and immediately beginning to occupy him- 
self with the few preparations which he had to make, he 
might soon have been seen springing into his carriage 
with as light a step as usual ; and then, waving his hand 
from the window, he was gone like a flash of light. 

“ Gone !” said the nurse, who was holding the child up 
at an open window to see papa ; and the little fellow also 
did his best to say, “ Gone !” Isabel heard it, and hasten- 
ed up into her room. How was her time. She turned 
the key in the door, fell down on her knees beside a 
couch, and wept as if her heart was breaking. 

Long and terrible was the agony of grief with which 
her whole frame was convulsed ; but nature has the hap- 
py art of working her own cure, and by the bleeding of 
her wounds promotes their healing. When the first 
natural outburst of tears had in some measure abated, a 
solemn calm ensued, and holier feelings took the place 
of womanly sorrow. Isabel could pray now, perhaps 
more fervently than she had ever prayed before, casting 
her whole life, her being, and not hers alone, but those 
of her husband and her child, into the hands of her 
Heavenly Father, to do with them according to his own 
good pleasure. There was no safety for any of them. 


30 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


slie felt, but in His keeping. He could make all safe, 
wherever they might be, and however widely separated. 

In this long communion between her soul and her 
Maker, Isabel wisely abstained from calculating results, 
or attempting to look into that future known only to the 
Father of Spirits. Her mental exercise, though a heart 
w^ork, was only a simple committal of her all into His 
hands; and after this she was able to rise from her 
knees, not only strengthened, but comforted. She had 
no peace before, and she had felt sometimes as if her 
reason would give way; but now there were clearness 
and directness in her path, though thickly strewn with 
thorns; and if she must walk with bleeding feet, and 
walk alone, she was left in no doubt as to how and where 
she ought to tread. 

This was the last great struggle on the part of the 
wife and mother. She had no after strife, only a deep- 
seated sorrow, which she hid whenever her husband w^as 
near, using all the influence she possessed, without being 
obtrusive or too urgent, to keep him steady to his pur- 
pose. 

It was, perhaps, more difficult for Isabel to argue with 
effect on some of the points discussed, because she, like 
her husband, had been nurtured in the idea that a glo- 
rious death is no mean recompense for faithful service. 
Whenever her husband alluded, in the way of regret, to 
the particular kind of service he had undertaken, because 
the dangers it involved were of a mean and ignoble char- 
acter, Isabel had to speak against the leanings of her 
own heart, and so managed as to convince herself, as 
well as him, that there is a glory higher than is cele- 
brated by the acclamations of an admiring world in per- 
forming any act of service to mankind, simply because 
it is a duty ; and thus that the patient investigator in 
the field of science, the unknown explorer in his solitary 


ISABEL. 


31 


wanderings, the man who unostentatiously devotes him- 
self to the interests of his country, though never heard 
of by his fellow-men, is really as great a hero, and often 
as brave a man — nay, more brave really — than the soldier 
who fights his country’s battles, and shares the shallow 
triumph of a victorious return. 

All this Isabel had to preach faithfully and persever- 
ingly, and she never shrank from her duty, nor allowed 
herself to faint under it. When great things have to be 
done great souls never faint. It is their distinctive 
merit, and that especially by which they may be known 
from little souls, that they always rise, and grow, and en- 
large, in proportion to the magnitude of what they have 
to encounter. 

Isabel had need for all her greatness of soul, for now 
the days flew past on rapid wing, moving ever more 
swiftly, as it seemed, to that one point of destiny beyond 
which she could see nothing yet. There was so much to 
be thought of and actually done, on her husband’s part, 
in relation to his great undertaking ; so much attendance 
in public offices, and so many consultations with public 
men ; so much also of a confidential nature with which 
he was intrusted, that he had scarcely time to spare, 
scarcely power of thought at his command, for those 
home aftairs which must all devolve upon his wife when 
he should be gone. Besides which, his home looked so 
secure and comfortable, his wife was -so wise and pru- 
dent, that perhaps in the secret of his heart he did not 
consider much attention needed there. So the captain, 
when at home, glanced hurriedly over the few items for 
consideration which were laid before him, expressed his 
entire confidence in the good management of his wife, 
signed a few documents to which it was necessary that 
his name should be appended, and thus every thing, he 
thought, was made ready in that quarter. 


32 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


The great question of life or death seemed scarcely to 
enter into the captain’s calculations, so entirely was he 
occupied with business to be done. At the urgent re- 
monstrance of the admiral he had just managed to make 
a will ; and by doing that, and placing all his worldly af- 
fairs in the hands of a trustworthy solicitor, he felt that 
his duty as a husband and a father was discharged. In- 
deed, he could do nothing more. His wife was the best 
and the most competent woman in the world, and he 
was so pressed for time, and so busy — so busy, that al- 
most every time any confidential matter was brought 
forward by Isabel to be discussed between them, it had 
to be put off to another opportunity. And yet the days 
flew past faster and faster, and he was going w^here it 
was scarcely possible that any communication should 
come from him to her, qr that any letter of hers should 
find him in his distant wanderings. 

Well, every man to his duty, and every woman to hers. 
Isabel saw distinctly what her sphere of duty was, and 
often upon her knees, when alone, she implored that help 
to discharge it aright, without which she felt that it 
would be impossible for her so much as to look into the 
future which now stretched before her. For already she 
began to experience some of its trials ; already she be- 
gan to taste some of its bitterness; already to know 
something even of its loneliness. Her husband was so 
occupied — it was right that he should be so; he was 
so abstracted from his domestic and social affaii's, his 
thoughts so continually turned with their full force and 
weight in another direction — this also was right ; but it 
cost Isabel many a tear and many a heartache, though 
without once blaming her husband, because she felt that 
all was right. 

“ To accomplish any thing well you must go heart and 
soul into it,” was Captain Grant’s favorite maxim ; and. 


ISABEL. 


33 


for a nature like his, it was a wise and true one. “ All 
or nothing” seemed to be the motto of his life ; and while 
his wife admired him for this, and felt in consequence 
that whatever he undertook would be executed faithful- 
ly and well, still, as already said, it left her somewhat 
lonely at a time when any earnest confidential commun- 
ion with him would have been most consoling. 

Alas for poor woman ! she never has all the wants in 
a husband. She adores a manly man, and when she has 
got him she feels lonely. She longs for a man who will 
be her constant companion, always entering into her 
inner feelings, and sympathizing with her in her weaker 
moments ; and when she has got him she despises him, 
and pines for a hero. 

But Isabel was perfectly satisfied, though often sad. 
She would not have exchanged her manly, enterprising 
husband — not even one attribute of his noble character 
— for all the flattering attentions which could have been 
lavished on herself. Yes, she was fully satisfied. Her 
heart was rich in contentment, though just now sorely 
oppressed with care, whenever she sat down to think; 
only that, happily for her, almost aU her thoughts and 
feelings were absorbed in the rapid approach of that one 
day of doom, and with the multitude of things which 
had to be considered and arranged before it should real- 
ly come. 

It came at last, however, in all its cruel force and bit- 
terness, far exceeding what Isabel had anticipated be- 
forehand. How it came, and how it left her — how the 
succeeding days and nights were passed, words would 
be powerless to describe. Many have gone through the 
same experience, and borne it heroically too — many less 
favorably circumstanced than Isabel ; although, with re- 
gard to favorable circumstances, it availed little to her 
just then that she was surrounded by all which the world 
B 2 


34 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


calls enviable — wealth and luxury, the finest and rarest 
embellishments of taste and beauty, both of nature and 
art — faithful servants to do her bidding, power to com- 
mand, influence to surround herself with friends — every 
thing, in short, but one, the very life, and stay, and joy 
of her whole existence. So it is ever in this world. 
Those who possess most feel most the want of the one 
thing which they can not have. 

There was nothing which Isabel dreaded so much, 
and shrunk from with such soreness of feeling, as people 
coming to condole with her. She did not want to be 
condoled with. Nothing had happened to her but what 
she had approved, consented to, and even invited — noth- 
ing, in fact, which she wished otherwise. So inappro- 
priate, therefore, were all attempts at condolence, so far 
from reaching the centre of what was still her mighty 
grief, that in order more efiectually to ward ofi* such ob- 
trusiveness, she began, as soon as it was possible for her 
to command the necessary power, to assume a kind of 
outward cheerfulness, which gave to casual observers 
the idea that she was a woman of little feeling — “ so un- 
moved,” they said, “ as they never could have imagined 
a young wife to be, under such circumstances.” 

Indeed, remarks, according to all the accustomed va- 
rieties of misconception, were made upon Isabel’s de- 
meanor under this trial. By far the most emphatic were 
those of a peculiar, but not uncommon style of woman, 
to the effect that they would never have consented to 
being left ; their husbands should not have gone without 
them ; they would have followed a husband to the ends 
of the earth, and if he must die they would die with him. 
All very pretty when uttered by fair young lips, but not 
very much to the purpose where duty has to be consid- 
ered, nor yet where a higher style of self-devotion than 
mere personal adhesion constitutes the one grand feature 
of female heroism. 


ISABEL. 


35 


The darkest and most melancholy portion of Isabel’s 
present widowhood was the time which elapsed before 
the birth of her second child, an event which took place 
about three months after her husband’s departure. This 
time her own recovery was tedious; but the child — a 
little daughter — was at first so extremely delicate and 
feeble, that to preserve the faint spark of life in its ten- 
der frame became the one absorbing object,, both wuth 
the mother and with all concerned in the duties of the 
nursery. 

It was, perhaps, a happy circumstance for Isabel that 
her thoughts were thus necessarily directed into a new 
channel, and that the anxieties of the passing moment 
thus obscured, in some measure, those which related to 
the future. 

The child lived, though to prolong its existence up to 
maturity seemed likely to be a matter of almost as great 
diflSculty as it had at first been to preserve it. Not that 
any definite disease assailed its tender frame, but, wfith 
unusual beauty and sweetness, it had brought into the 
world with it that exquisite fineness and delicacy of na- 
ture which require more than usual care in nurture and 
management. All this was good for the lonely mother 
— so closely do our blessings intermingle with our anx- 
ieties, even with what we are too much disposed to call 
our misfortunes. 

Isabel became more solicitous now, from the addition- 
al claim upon her attention, to preserve her own health, 
and her various capabilities' of mind and person. She 
had more to live for now ; and, as time passed on, the 
calmness of a steady grief overspread her life like a silent 
flood, leaving fewer of its heights and depths perceptible, 
even to herself, excepting on particular occasions, when 
the old trouble became stirred by the apprehension of 
some fresh cause of uneasiness. 


36 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


Perhaps the greatest cause for reasonable complaint 
with which Isabel was tried was the absence of all au- 
thentic information respecting her husband. Shortly 
after his first going out, letters had been received, with 
other intelligence ; but subsequently no tidings had come, 
and now there were not unfrequently paragraphs in the 
papers which startled her out of that placid equanimity 
and quiet trust which she was so anxious to maintain 
throughout the whole tenor of her life. 

Instead of closing her eyes against all chance of re- 
ceiving pain from such sources, Isabel read, and heard, 
and endeavored to find out, all that could be known of 
her husband’s proceedings. Once she had reason to feel 
assured that a packet from him was on its way home ; 
but, on this precise occasion, a hurricane in some far-ofi* 
region of the globe so nearly wrecked the vessel which 
was bringing home this treasure, that all was lost except 
a portion of the crew — all that was worth more than a 
thousand ships to her was gone down into those secret 
depths from whence no power of man, nor force of dis- 
turbing elements, could ever bring it forth again. 

This was indeed a bitter, a cruel disappointment. 
People might well condole with the young wife under 
such a blow, and she bore their condolence better than 
she had done when her sorrow was new, and her heart 
was smarting under its first painful wound. She was 
learning, indeed, many lessons both of faith and patience ; 
and she learned them all with such a sweet resignation, 
almost amounting to cheerfulness, that still it was said 
of her at times, by those who never exercised the disci- 
pline of self-control themselves, “ What a blessing it must 
be to take life as easily, and to be always as unmoved as 
Mrs. Grant !” 

But there were those who knew very differently from 
this. Isabel was happy in having faithful and good 


ISABEL. 


37 


servants — she could not have endured any other — and 
they all learned to understand her quiet ways, and rec- 
ognized, with many a sympathetic tone, and many a wise 
shake of the head, that deep under current of feeling 
which they knew to be flowing beneath the calm surface 
of her daily life. 

By the conduct of these servants toward their mis- 
tress it would have been difficult to say whether they 
most reverenced or loved her. All her tastes were con- 
sulted, as well as her will obeyed ; for Isabel took a per- 
sonal interest in every thing about her home, so that no 
anticipation of her wishes, no faithful execution of her 
orders, ever went unobserved, or without its meed of 
cordial thanks and praise. Thus Isabel made around 
herself a httle world, of which she was truly and in 
heart the queen. People said she ought to get away 
from home — to try the amusement of change of scene. 
The idea was revolting to her. The proposal was the 
only one suggested by well-meant kindness which she 
did not receive graciously. No ; her home was her cas- 
tle, her bower, her harbor of refuge. She would never 
leave it until she could hear that he was safe, or — 

And Isabel never did leave her home, though years 
passed over, and rumors floated through the country 
that the ship had not been heard of since having been 
seen at a certain point of imminent danger. Oh ! it was 
long to wait, and very sick at times grew the heart of 
the mother and the wife. If, however, she despaired, no 
such expression ever passed her lips — no listening to the 
evident despondency of others ever brought a cloud upon 
her brow, or a tear into her eye. Whether she had re- 
ally, in the secret of her heart, that entire confidence in 
her husband’s return which gave to all her actions the 
impress of faith, no one ever knew ; but certainly she or- 
dered all her household arrangements as if the master 


38 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


might be expected home at any time, though the serv- 
ants often went about the execution of her orders with 
doubtful glances toward each other, and ill-suppressed 
sighs, which indicated that they, at least, had lost all 
hope. 

Steadily onward, then, without once flinching under 
the great burden of her duties, Isabel still went, paler 
and thinner — that was all. 'No neglect of her house or 
person ever indicated a carelessness of life, or any of its 
elegances; all order was maintained — all beauty pre- 
served. The trees, as they grew — and how they had 
grown since he left ! — were as carefully trained, and the 
grass kept as exquisitely smooth as ever. The green- 
houses were supplied as richly, even rare exotics some- 
times added. Every thing, in short, was maintained in 
the highest possible perfection, not for her own sake, but 
in honor of her absent lord. Not for her own sake tru- 
ly, for all seemed now to be hanging too awfully sus- 
pended upon that return, respecting which the world 
was beginning to be doubtful. 

The third long summer of her loneliness had come and 
nearly gone, and Isabel was seated one day on the ter- , 
race "when a letter was put into her hand. All foreign 
letters had shaken her dreadfully of late ; but this — It 
was a short thin letter by the overland route. How 
should she ever command strength to open it ? 

Isabel broke the seal, but with such quivering fingers 
that the old butler who had brought the letter could 
not leave her quite alone, but stood at a little distance, 
sometimes dashing a tear from his eyes. At last he saAV 
that his mistress, in a convulsive attitude, had let the 
letter drop. Her hands were clasped, and her eyes 
raised, as if in prayer. The old man approached, though 
unobtrusively. 

“ Oh, Williams !” his mistress exclaimed ; and, looking 


ISABEL. 


39 


in her face, he saw at once how it was. Ever afterward 
he was accustomed to describe her countenance, as it 
looked just then, as being irradiated with a light from 
heaven. In another moment Isabel sprang to her feet ; 
but she could not walk. Her knees gave way beneath 
her, and she w'ould have sunk to the ground but for the 
supporting arm of the old servant. 

“ Williams,” Isabel began again, “ he is safe !” 

“ Thank God ! for him and you,” said the man. 

“ He is safe,” continued Isabel, “ and will be in South- 
ampton in less than a week.” 

Isabel’s powers entirely failed her after this. She be- 
came weak as a child, and sometimes wept like one, and 
sometimes laughed. But her self-possession and her 
strength were both restored before the arrival of her 
husband on the shore of his native land. It may well be 
supposed that he was not long in reaching his home. 
He did not find his wife seated on the terrace this time, 
but in her own room, where their first interview took 
place ; and never was a happier meeting between man 
and wife. 

On both sides there was much to tell. But the bronzed 
and time-worn-looking sailor had scarcely patience to 
hear. He wanted to hold all in his arms — to embrace 
all at once. Yet a modest consciousness seemed to hold 
him back, as if it were too much — too much for him — 
rough, weather-beaten man that he was — to own and 
claim for himself such an amount of happiness. 

There is something almost awful in these sudden and 
abundant floods of joy, as if the blessing was greater 
than our nature could sustain. But yet that sense of 
awe only makes it deeper and holier. And when the 
father took his two children on his knees, and looked 
into the face of his wife, and saw that her calm beauty 
wore some sad traces of what she had been suflfering, he 


40 


CHAPTEBS ON WIVES. 


dashed a few tears from his eyes before he was able to 
tell her, as he did from his full heart, that whatever he 
had accomplished (and he beheved he had done good 
service), or at whatever value it might be estimated by 
his country, he felt, and had felt through all his distant 
dangers, that he owed the glory of the enterprise to her 
calm bravery, her high principle, and her faithful love. 

“ Don’t talk to me of the bravery of men,” Captain 
Grant would often say in after years. “The glory we 
obtain abroad owes more than half its value to the quiet 
heroism of our wives at home.” 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


CHAPTER I. 

the plea of distant relationship, Frank Osbourne, a 
promising young artist, was admitted as a frequent visit- 
or within the domestic circle of the Pridhurst family. 
That circle was somewhat exclusive, and contracted; 
but the family residence being pleasantly situated within 
half an hour’s journey by rail from London, it afforded a 
welcome change to run out in the fine summer evenings, 
when London is especially dusty, dull, and disagreeable. 
It is true the habits of the household were a little too 
precise for perfect enjoyment, especially those of the 
lady who was understood to govern the whole ; but as 
there was a blooming circle of daughters without a 
brother, and consequently much disposed to be amused 
with the vagaries of this distant, and to them eccentric 
relation, it could not be a matter of indifference to Frank, 
who was always ready to be pleased, when he met the 
smiling welcomes of this bevy of young ladies after the 
toils of a long day spent without any female companion- 
ship, and often without any companionship at all. 

Although possessing no brilliant attraction in the way 
of beauty, the young ladies of the Pridhurst family were 
artistically interesting to Frank, because, to his fancy, 
they represented so many nuns ; so total was their igno- 
rance of what constituted his world — so distant, what- 
ever knowledge they possessed, from that which formed 
the basis of his favorite pursuits. Unquestionably they 
would have been considered, by most young men of his 


42 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


standing, as somewhat dull and tame ; but the fields, and 
orchards, and gardens about their residence were very 
pretty; the trees broad and shadowy; the meadows 
rich and soft; the cattle Paul Pottery; and the alto- 
gether perfectly irresistible; because there was always 
that secretly flattering welcome among the young ladies 
themselves which touched the susceptible heart of the 
artist in so lively a manner that he was often on the 
point of falling in love, only that he always went away 
sensible of a combined attraction from many sources, 
and thus found extreme difficulty in fixing his fancy 
upon one. 

That which mere external attraction, however, never 
could have done, was brought about by very simple 
means. Frank, though a favored guest, was extremely 
liable to give offense to the lady of the house. He either 
turned up the corners of the hearthrug with his foot, or 
drew out a chair which she had just set aside, or rushed 
into the room unannounced, or committed some other 
breach of family order, which, but for his extreme good- 
humor and natural politeness, Mrs. Pridhurst would have 
found it difficult to pardon. The girls saw this, and were 
amused ; some were even so mischievously inclined as to 
make matters worse. But there was one who always 
tried to make them better ; one who never laughed to 
see her mother’s frown as the visitor approached ; one 
who often came forward quietly to rectify any inadvert- 
ent mistake ; one who would meet the visitor in the 
garden as if by accident, and then lead him on to ad- 
mire first a new rose, and then a carnation, until, as she 
hoped, the perfume of his last cigar would be so far dif- 
fused among the flower-beds as to escape her mother’s 
keen perceptions. These little instances of genuine kind- 
ness (for it would be unjust to call them arts) carried the 
day with Frank ; his heart surrendered, and the offer of 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


43 


his hand, which followed quickly upon this event, was 
not refused. 

To describe the astonishment of the whole household, 
when made acquainted with what had taken place be- 
tween this imprudent couple, would be impossible ; and, 
what was most surprising to Frank, the sisters, who had 
heretofore regarded him so complacently, were not the 
least severe in their exclamations against marrying a 
penniless, and, as they were pleased to call him, a friend- 
less artist. The mother satisfied herself with treating 
the thing as impossible ; while the father, who seldom 
ventured an opinion upon family matters when not cer- 
tain of support from the higher power, grew strong here, 
and expressed himself Avith all that warmth and bitter- 
ness which little and down-trodden natures so much de- 
light in, on occasions Avhen they dare to be indignant. 

Catherine Pridhurst, upon whom the artist’s choice 
had fallen, Avas the oldest of the five daughters, already 
having attained the age of tAventy-four, just one year on 
the Avrong side of her lover’s age. Partly because she 
was the oldest, and partly because of some hidden worth 
in her own character Avhich a venerable aunt had discov- 
ered, she inherited a small bequest from this relative, 
Avhich enabled her to act a little more independently than 
her sisters ; and in a quiet manner, peculiar to herself, she 
declared her determination to pursue the dictates of her 
own heart in the matter of marriage. 

All who knew Catherine knew perfectly well that, if 
once she formed a deliberate determination, she Avas not 
likely to relinquish her purpose ; and thus it Avas that 
the engagement came at last to be recognized by the 
family, Avho still professed only to tolerate the alliance, 
Avhile they continually predicted for her a future of pov- 
erty and degradation, Avith trials under which she must 
eventually sink. 


44 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


Very quietly Catherine bore all this, and very steadily 
she carried on the preparations necessary for her change 
of circumstances. From the calmness of her general de- 
portment some would have thought that she did not feel 
what her sisters and her parents were constantly en- 
deavoring to make her feel. The fact is, that feelings 
can only be understood by calculating opposing weights 
and balances and Catherine was all the while receiving 
a rich and abundant compensation in the passionate 
ardor of her now almost adoring lover, all which was so 
new to her, and yet so much like what she had some- 
times dreamed of in the secret of her hidden heart, that 
it converted the whole world into another and a widely 
different universe to her, and so rendered exceedingly in- 
significant what might be taking place in the old. 

It seems a little curious, but so it often happens 
nevertheless, that a man suddenly breaks out into this 
ardor of affection for a woman whom he has known for 
some time without being sensible that he loved her at 
all; but this was the less wonderful in the case of Frank 
Osbourne, because his whole being was made up of ardor, 
and impulse, and passion, and that sort of thing ; so much 
so, that he fell in love with his own angels while he paint- 
ed them, and quivered and shook with the passions he 
depicted, until often obliged to throw down his brushes, 
and rush out into the common street, or into the com- 
pany of his acquaintances, where his imagination was 
soon disrobed both of charms and horrors. 

If, in order to a happy union, it is necessary, as some 
persons suppose, for the parties to be very different, so 
that each may contribute to the joint stock of comfort 
what the other can not bring, according to this theory, 
there could scarcely be a more auspicious union than 
that which was celebrated in a very unostentatious man- 
ner between Frank Osbourne and Catherine Pridhurst. 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


45 


Dilferent as all their early associations had been, the dif- 
ference was, perhaps, still greater in their natural and 
distinctive characters. Hitherto, however, no one knew 
exactly what the lady’s character really was. In fact, 
she knew very little about it herself. Her life had been 
one of quiet routine, with few incidents to call forth 
either her feelings or her capabilities. Under a system 
of undeviating order and rigid discipline, she had learned 
to keep down whatever there might be of warmth, of 
energy, and especially of eccentricity in her own nature, 
and so to wear, on all occasions, that aspect of genteel 
uniformity which leaves but little to be said or thought 
of young ladies in general. The great question was yet 
to be solved — whether thig was, indeed, all of which 
Catherine was capable, and all for which she had been 
called into existence. Sometimes she fancied it was 
not. Sometimes she had waking dreams, when strange 
thoughts would flit across her mind, like glancing sun- 
beams athwart a monotonous or gloomy landscape. But 
the little activity of thought and feeling which these 
visions called into life was soon subdued, and brought 
down to the level of that every-day routine which is no 
less influential upon personal and individual existence 
than upon the more public functions of official life. 

Among the many vague impressions produced by these 
waking dreams we will speak only of one, as being the 
most definite and enduring. It consisted, chiefly, of a 
certain kind of heroic notion of the dignity as well as 
the beauty of self-devotion. Catherine had been brought 
to this way of thinking by many concurring circum- 
stances, but chiefly by a certain want of loveliness in her 
mother’s system of domestic rule and management. 
True, she had no very definite idea of the virtue of self- 
devotion for a man whose character was like her father’s ; 
but, as she had always intended to marry very difierent- 


46 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


ly from her mother, so she had a secret habit of pictur- 
ing in her own mind a domestic system which combined 
all the noble elements of the most interesting and beau- 
tiful self-devotion, brought into operation for the sake 
of one who should fully appreciate and richly reward the 
sacrifice. Nothing in the course of her reading ever 
thrilled the heart of Catherine Pridhurst like this com- 
bination of generous giving up on one side, and grateful 
reception on the other. It was the favorite employment 
of her hidden thoughts to sit in judgment upon how few 
women in general, and among her own acquaintances in 
particular, fullfilled this their highest mission upon earth ; 
and while she thought of others, condemning much oft- 
ener than she approved, she determined that her own 
married course should be a perfect illustration of this 
her favorite theory, which she held by as tenaciously as 
by her religious faith, and perhaps a little more so. 

It is scarcely necessary to state that in this her grand 
theory Catherine quite overlooked two or three very 
important facts, especially that of people not always 
wanting the offered sacrifice, and still more frequently 
exhibiting very little gratitude for it — sometimes even 
not perceiving it at all, except when forced upon their 
notice, and then hating it altogether, as a sort of debt 
incurred without their knowledge, which they might still 
be called upon to pay. These were conditions of her 
heroism which Catherine had never contemplated, but 
actually allowed herself to be led to the altar and mar- 
ried, under the full persuasion that the self-denying sys- 
tem upon which she was going to act would be as agree- 
able to her husband as admirable and praiseworthy in 
herself. 

Raised above all inferior considerations by this noble 
idea, Catherine rather rejoiced than lamented over her 
husband’s pecuniary circumstances, which, being some- 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


what limited, would afford her all the more frequent ex- 
ercise of the virtue in which she intended to shine with 
no common lustre. For a wealthy man it would neither 
have been necessary nor becoming to deny herself the 
little luxuries and embellishments to which she had been 
accustomed; but here was a wide field open to her in 
which she might walk gracefully, though stripped of 
many external ornaments, her actions, if not her words, 
expressing at every step, “ Behold, how much I give up, 
and endure for yoic P 

Then, again, the character of her husband Catherine 
imagined to be quite as well suited as his circumstances 
for the exercise of her beautiful theory, so warm-heart- 
ed, so generous, so capable of high thoughts and tender 
sentiments. How he would admire her as her system 
developed itself ! and how that system would gradually 
work upon his own heart and life, so as to produce, al- 
most insensibly, exactly the kind of good which his 
character most needed ! So Catherine built her castles 
in the air, and viewed them from the distance, arrayed 
in all the light and glory of an atmosphere of her own 
creating; and no voice of experience whispered in her 
ear these few plain words : “ My dear young woman, 
your theory may be very pretty for yourself, but it must 
be very odious to those on whom you practice it, be- 
cause it presupposes them so selfish as to be always tak- 
ing something from you for their owm benefit, which you 
may possibly require even more than they do. Unless, 
then, you can so wrap up your self-sacrifice that they 
never find it, and unless you can adapt it at all times ex- 
actly to their tastes and wishes, you had better go on in 
the ordinary way, pleasing yourself and making yourself 
comfortable, and leaving others to do the same.” 

What jarring discord such language would have pro- 
duced had it burst upon the ear of our devoted heroine ! 


48 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


But experience must be felt, not heard ; and so Catherine 
was preparing to discover for herself, not that self-devo- 
tion is not beautiful, is not a virtue, not even the highest 
virtue, but that, when deliberately set about as a means 
of commanding admiration or gratitude, it is as uncom- 
fortable a virtue as any woman can well carry about with 
her. Catherine’s great lesson of life was, then, yet to be 
learned. Let us see how it was taught. 

The home to which Frank Osbourne took his bride, 
after a pleasant ramble in Wales, was one of those pretty 
little villas, so numerous in the outskirts of London, 
where every thing essential to a genteel residence may be 
found on the smallest possible scale. Coach-house, gar- 
den, lawn, conservatory — nothing was wanting. Frank 
was very fond of having beautiful things aroimd him. 
The perfect taste with which he had filled up his miniature 
establishment was scarcely more to be admired than its 
completeness; and the delight he naturally experienced 
in sketching and rambling through the loveliest scenery 
of Wales was at times interrupted by an almost boyish 
longing which came over him to fly back again to Lon- 
don, in order that he might experience the deeper enjoy- 
ment of introducing his bride to this little gem of a 
house ; for such, indeed, it was. 

Frank had told his wife how very small the little villa 
was ; but, unfortunately, she had never in her life seen 
any thing habitable on a similar scale ; and, on first en- 
tering, she was so struck with the curiosity of the thing, 
that, instead of admiring the taste it displayed, she burst 
into a fit of laughter at its fairy-like proportions. She 
did not either contract her own dimensions as she might 
have done, but swept about in full sail, dragging oflT ta- 
ble-covers and deranging curtains, and laughing all the 
while ; so that it was impossible for her to perceive even 
the exquisite effect which Frank had contrived by the 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


49 


opening of the drawing-room into a smaller apartment, 
in which were hung his favorite pictures, for which (he 
did not tell her) he had been obliged to borrow of a 
friend to purchase frames. 

Frank Osbourne was peculiarly sensitive on points of 
this kind. In temper he was a very child, and required 
to be humored as one. Catherine had no idea of the 
mischief she had done ; and, when her amusement a little 
abated, she really admired the choice and arrangement 
of every thing around her as much as any reasonable 
man could have desired. But the happy moment had 
j)ass,ed by. A cloud came over her husband’s face, which 
no good-humor on her part could dispel. He rang for 
the servant to show her up stairs, without going there 
himself ; and then, turning into the little garden, lighted 
a cigar, and consoled himself with that. 

During the course even of their honeymoon Catherine 
had detected symptoms of a kind of petulance on the 
part of her husband, a fault which she considered it 
would be one of her first duties to correct. What had 
happened to vex him now she could not possibly imag- 
ine ; but, at all events, it was in this instance clear that 
she was the aggrieved party; for he knew how much 
she disliked that disagreeable habit of smoking, and it 
looked like nothing less than defiance to begin with it 
before they had been half an hour in their own house. 

However, neither Catherine nor Frank had any real 
bitterness in their nature, and they had between them a 
solid foundation of love, which neither a cigar nor a fit 
of laughter could seriously afiect. Frank was the more 
hasty and irritable of the two, but no human wrath was 
ever more easily appeased than his ; and now, when his 
wife, really overcome by the many thoughtful arrange- 
ments she had discovered, which must have been intend- 
ed especially for her comfort, came smiling into the gar- 
C 


50 


CHAPTERS OK WIVES. 


den to him, and, despite the odious weed, drew her arm 
round his neck, and said with genuine feeling, “ Really, 
this is a little paradise, Frank,” he threw the remainder 
of his cigar over the garden wall, made room for her to 
sit down beside him, and then began, without a shadow 
on his brow, to show and describe to his wife so much 
that he had thought of and done preparatory to her com- 
ing, that, instead of making sacrifices, Catherine found 
herself, for that evening at least, in the position of one 
who has to receive more than any amount of gratitude 
can repay. 


CHAPTER n. 

It was a matter of amusement among his friends to 
see how wonderfully Frank Osbourne loved his wife. 
She was not a beautiful woman, though she could look 
extremely well. She had no contour of face or figure to 
fit her for a model in her husband’s studio. In fact, her 
good looks were rather of that kind which demands a 
little care — care in the adjustment of dress, in the choice 
of colors, and in the arrangement especially of the hair. 
Catherine knew this, and she was studious of such mat- 
ters, even to a marked nicety and precision, which, if she 
had remained unmarried a few years longer, would have 
been called old maidish. Especially was she studious 
about her hair, which well repaid the trouble of keeping 
in the most exact order. Her husband liked order too, 
but in a very different way. He liked the order of good 
taste and refinement — all such kinds of order as belong 
to symmetry and concord; but for the order of mere 
neatness he cared very little, especially when it interfered 
with his own impulsive mode of exhibiting whatever 
feeling might be uppermost at the moment. Thus the 
apartments he inhabited required a great deal of adjust- 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


51 


ment after he had left them — sometimes, perhaps, a little 
more than his wife thought quite equitable as falling to 
her share of trouble. 

Such as these were not, in fact, the kind of sacrifices 
which Catherine had contemplated ; and as her husband’s 
domestic circumstances did not admit of more than one 
servant being kept, the wife saw no reason why both 
partners in the matrimonial concern should not practice 
the same amount of self-restraint, and make the same ef- 
forts to meet the exigencies of every day. Catherine 
wanted nothing beyond what was fair and just ; but she 
did want that ; and, as she inherited something of her 
mother’s turn for discipline in such matters, the domestic 
machine became a little difficult to adjust, so as to keep 
the wheels going always quite smoothly. The difficulty, 
however, as Catherine thought, lay entirely on the side 
of her husband. If he would only be reasonable, all 
would go well. “ Ah ! my dear madam, that is pre- 
cisely what hundreds of wives are saying just at this 
moment, and their saying so does not make the case one 
whit better for themselves, only a good deal worse for 
their liusbands.’' 

Frank Osbourne very naturally cordially disliked tljis 
equalizing of the matrimonial balance. He had not mar- 
ried for that. He had married to have every thing put 
right again which he had made wrong ; he had married 
to have perpetual sunshine in his home, his hearth al- 
ways cheerful, his table well supplied, his wardrobe in 
order; and, above and beyond all, his wife always at 
leisure, and j^erfectly disposed to be caressed at any mo- 
ment when the fit came upon him to fancy her particu- 
larly attractive or engaging. The least symptom on her 
part of abstraction, preoccupation, or, if such a thing 
could be conceived of, the shadow of a repulse, was 
enough to send him to the very antipodes of domestic 


52 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


confidence and affection, from wlience the return is not 
always so rapid as the going. 

The first occasion of this kind which occurred was so 
slight that it would have been wholly imperceptible to a 
nature not extreme in its nervous susceptibility, like that 
of Frank Osbourne. He had lingered about his home, 
his garden, and his wife, one morning later than usual, 
before going to his studio, until at last reminded of the 
time by a loud knock at the front door. In the ardor 
of one of his impulsive fits of affection, he had rushed 
up stairs to take leave of his wife before the visitors 
should be ushered into the drawing-room, where she was 
hurriedly arranging the many papers, books, and other 
things which he had thrown out of place. If ever a wife 
might be excused for not being ready for a caress, Mrs. 
Osbourne might at that moment. Yet the caress came 
with more warmth than usual, and down went the whole 
fabric of that hair which she had so carefully adjusted, 
and which required so much time to rearrange. It was 
the work of a moment, for the steps of the visitors were 
already on the stairs ; but there had been a frown and a 
push, on the part of the wife, which haunted the hus- 
band all day. It was the first time he had seen that ex- 
pression on Catherine’s face. It had come in the midst 
of his farewell kisses : would it ever come again ? The 
thought was ^horror. It took all the beauty of his wife 
away, and all the sunshine of his home. Frank could 
not paint that day. There were images of loveliness 
around him,"" but they possessed no charm for him. He 
fell into a passion with the 230or sitter who had been 
patiently waiting in his room for hours. He smoked 
desperately ; and at last, throwing brushes and palette 
aside, he put on his hat, and went out in search of his 
friend Cleveland. 

The painting upon which Frank Osbourne was en- 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


53 


gaged was a favorite composition, which he was prepar- 
ing for the next spring exhibition. It was one of those 
pictures which, by some indescribable charm, may hap- 
pen to please the fancy, or it was nothing. Sometimes 
he persuaded himself it would create a great sensation — 
sometimes he lost both heart and hope, and but for the 
encouragement of his friends would have thrown it aside 
forever. Indeed, as an artist, Frank differed little from 
what he was as a man and a husband. Always quick 
and variable in his feelings, he was at one moment elated 
and confident, at another utterly desponding. And thus 
it was that the friends who most loved and valued him 
felt a constant care about how he might be getting on, 
and so went often to see his work, and to try to keep 
him up to any mark at which he might be aiming. 

Among these friends there was none who had grown 
into so close an intimacy as Cleveland, of whom Cath- 
erine had heard so much from her husband that she 
grew a little tired of the name, and perhaps a little jeal- 
ous of the influence which this unknown, and, to her, in- 
comprehensible being exercised over him. For some 
time after her marriage Cleveland did not call at the 
villa. Frank said he hated women, and when his wife, 
upon this testimony, pronounced him a bear, Frank told 
her how high his position was in society, how well he 
was connected, and how much he might assume, if he 
chose, in the way of aristocratic bearing and preten- 
sions ; until poor Catherine began to fear that he was 
too great an acquaintance for her, and to dread his com- 
*ing more than she had disliked the thought of it before. 
At this Frank would laugh, and talk of his friend’s pov- 
erty, and the miserable expedients, as it seemed to her, 
by which he eked out a maintenance. But nobody cared 
for this, Frank said ; Cleveland was a born gentleman. 
He had all sorts of influential and wealthy connections. 


54 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


who could place him in any position he liked ; and es- 
pecially he had one patron whom he was always offend- 
ing, hut who valued him too highly not to be soon rec- 
onciled again. 

Catherine had been curious with regard to the gentle- 
man’s calling or profession. That was difficult to ex- 
plain, for he would do nothing but paint, and yet refused 
to practice this art in the ordinary way. His relative 
and patron, who professed to be an amateur in pictures, 
had for some years kept him occasionally occupied in 
copying. He had once even sent him to Home, to copy 
for him there. “ But,” added Frank, with indignation 
borrowed from his friend, “ the position of working as a 
mere copyist at the beck and bidding of a capricious old 
fellow like Sir George, is degrading to a nature such as 
Cleveland’s, and one of these days I fancy we shall see 
that he has thrown off his chains.” 

Catherine ventured to suggest that there might be 
other employments found of a more independent nature, 
if the gentleman did not like that ; but Frank rejected 
the idea. In fact, he said she could not understand the 
case at all. She must see Cleveland, and know him well, 
to be able to comprehend his character. 

In i^rocess of time Catherine did see Cleveland ; but 
she was not much the wiser for that, and certainly not 
better pleased. He might be a man well born and well 
connected ; but he was far from making himself agree- 
able to her. He did not even try to do so ; but direct- 
ed the few abrupt remarks he made entirely to her 
husband, who, she considered, was most unreasonably 
amused with what, to her, had neither point nor charm. 
Catherine, however, was too amiable, and too sensible 
of what belonged to her position as a gentlewoman, to 
be otherwise than polite to her husband’s friend ; and 
the visit passed off without any further comment than a 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


55 


quiet remark from Catherine, when the guest was gone, 
that perhaps she should like him better after a while. 

“Yes,” exclaimed Frank, “it requires only that you 
should know him, and believe in him, and be quite your- 
self before him, and you will soon be the best friends in 
the world.” 

Catherine rather thought not, but she said no more, 
and secretly pleasing herself with the idea that the dread- 
ed visit was over, went about her accustomed duties 
with a lighter feeling than before. To her great sur- 
prise,.however, Cleveland came again before a week had 
passed, quite unexpectedly on her part, to a “family din- 
ner,” as her husband said, when he ushered his friend 
into the room. She felt rather annoyed at this, because 
of the one servant, and the necessity there was of some- 
times having a family dinner, which, though good enough 
in itself, might not be quite such as she would like to 
spread before a guest ; and, if this was to be the habit 
of the man, there would be no certainty of any day when 
he would not come. To her comfort Catherine found 
that her visitor cared little about his eating. What wine 
he drank appeared to be of more consequence to him; 
and Catherine, as a part of her heroic system of self-de- 
nial, had lately begun to do without wine upon the table 
every day. She resolutely declined taking any herself, 
even when it was there ; and, strange to say, this little 
peculiarity of hers had the power of irritating her hus- 
band more than the display of many glaring faults, and 
certainly more than any self-indulgence would have 
done. He never would have cared what his wife ate or 
drank, nor how much money she spent upon herself: 
but this stupid abstemiousness, for the sake of econo- 
my, was a tacit censure upon him, and he hated the sight 
of her glass of water with nothing else, knowing as he 
did that she had been accustomed to wine all her life 
before. 


56 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


Blit Catherine was firm in this, implicitly believing 
herself to be right. It was a part of that system which 
was dear to her very soul ; and persuading herself that 
she had no other motive than her husband’s good, she 
bore his consequent ill-humor as a portion of that sufier- 
ing which it was so generous and noble to endure. 
Hitherto she had been able to do but little toward car- 
rying out the grand scheme of her life, and that little 
had been far from producing the grateful reward which 
she had so fondly anticipated. She almost longed for 
the time to come when she could do more; and then 
some day, some happy day, she would tell her husband 
all, and he would see what a wife she was. 

But, in the mean time, there was this Cleveland, whose 
presence in the house began to vex and irritate her ; and 
as weeks passed on, and his visits became more frequent, 
they brought with them accumulated causes of vexation, 
which she found it very difficult to endure with a good 
grace. If only he could be got rid of — She had half a 
mind to afiront him by doing something that he would 
understand, though her husband might not. She felt 
quite sure he was an idle fellow, or how could he find 
time to come so often, and to make their house a loung- 
ing-place ? And then the cigars and the pale ale which 
both gentlemen consumed in a snug little room opening 
into the garden, which Frank had fitted up evidently for 
some such purpose ! The expense, Catherine felt cer- 
tain, must be very considerable, and such total waste ! 
It was really quite a shame, when she had given up wine 
altogether, with some other little indulgences to which 
she had always been accustomed in her father’s house. 

Such were Catherine’s thoughts as she sat alone in the 
drawing-room, hearing sometimes such peals of laughter 
from the room below, and such a constant hum of ani- 
mated and cheery talk, that she could not help wonder- 


SELF-DEVOTIOIf. 


57 


ing how it was that Cleveland, who seemed to be talk- 
ing fast enough now, could be so abrupt and taciturn as 
he always was with her. It must be true, as Frank had 
told her, that he hated women. Then why did he come 
there, and not keep to his bachelor’s doings ? She was 
growing very fast to hate him ; and, feeling that, she be- 
gan also to think it would be not only justifiable, but 
right to take some decisive step for the purpose of keep- 
ing him away — all /or her hushand^s good. Catherine 
was careful about that. If she vexed her husband, if 
she deprived him of a favorite recreation, it was all for 
his good ; and the anger she would have to endure was 
only a necessary part of her system of self-devotion. 
For this she even felt willing to give up for a while some 
portion of her husband’s affection, which would indeed 
be the greatest of all kinds of giving up to her ; but, if 
ultimately for his benefit, he would only love her the 
more in the end. 

Catherine became very much strengthened in this way 
of thinking by one day finding, on returning home from 
church with her husband, that Cleveland had arrived 
during their absence, and was intending to spend the day 
with them. Frank was delighted, but Catherine gave 
the visitor her hand with even more reserve than usual. 
She was sure he could not have been to any place of 
worship, and, if such were his habits, he must be a very 
unfit person for her husband’s friend. So it would be a 
righteous cause in which she would have to suJffer while 
enduring her husband’s displeasure about this man. 

Yet all the while that these bitter thoughts were rank- 
hng in Catherine’s mind, she was far from being guilty 
of any absolute breach of politeness to the unwelcome 
guest ; so that Cleveland, who did not know her, and per- 
haps thought of her, if indeed he thought of her at all, 
as a cold sort of indifferent and uninteresting woman, 
C2 


58 


CHAPTBES ON WIVES. 


perceived nothing in her manner peculiarly repulsive, 
and was the less likely to he looking out for any thing 
of that kind because of the warm and cordial reception 
he always met with from the master of the house. 

It was a habit of long standing Avith Cleveland, in all 
such matters, to consider only himself, and what made 
him comfortable for the time being. If the lady of the 
house had insisted upon no smoking, and no pale ale, he 
would have withdrawn himself in a short space of time. 
But otherwise he had a trick of sitting, and sitting, 
wherever he felt it easy and pleasant to sit, without con- 
sidering whether it was possible for his sitting there to 
be an annoyance to any one. And with this habitual 
unconcern about every thing around him, beyond his 
own comfort or whim, he was continually, in some way 
or other, unconsciously deranging the household econo- 
my, or disturbing the personal convenience of others. 
Catherine never saw her rooms look half so forlorn and 
comfortless as when Cleveland had been there. It was 
perfectly amazing to her Avhat crumbs he could scatter 
on the carpet, how he could twist the table-cloth out of 
its place, and especially hoAV he could work up the cov- 
ers of the chairs on which he sat. And then never to 
put any thing right again — ^never to apologize — never to 
take even the slightest notice of herself beyond a formal 
bow on entering or leaving the room. She had a right, 
she thought, to resent such conduct on her own account. 
But she would not do that. No, if she alone had been 
concerned, she would haA^e borne all without a murmur. 
But her husband — she Av^as bound to consider his good ; 
and this man might, for any thing she knew to the con- 
trary, be absolutely corrupting the morals of her hus- 
band. It was plain he never Avent to church — was no 
better than a heathen : common prudence dictated that 
he must be got rid of at any risk. 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


59 


Here, then, was an opportunity — and a grand one, as 
it seemed to Catherine — for putting in practice her beau- 
tiful theory. Yes, she would martyr herself; for it 
would be nothing less to endure her husband’s displeas- 
ure. It never occurred to her that there was an oppo- 
site course of martyrdom — to bear the society of her 
husband’s friend. Catherine forgot, too, that to believe 
the man absolutely bad was to throw a very serious im- 
putation upon her husband’s character. She forgot many 
things which it might have been wise to remember, and 
so set herself against her husband’s friend with all the 
bitterness of feeling of which she was capable ; thus pre- 
paring herself, in the worst possible way, for an open 
declaration of her sentiments. 

The opportunity for making this declaration occurred 
sooner than she had anticipated. It was impossible for 
Frank Osbourne to remain wholly unobservant of his 
wife’s reserve and want of complacency when Cleveland 
was present ; and one day he asked her good-humoredly 
and kindly, why she could not be half as pleasant — he 
required no more — to other people as she was to him- 
self. 

For the sake of woman’s dignity we will not repeat all 
that Catherine found this a jilea for saying. We will 
not describe how great she felt herself in her righteous 
indignation, nor how little she really was ; how com- 
pletely she spoiled her case by asserting ten times more 
than she could prove ; and how she ended by having 
much the worst of it in this her first quarrel with her 
husband. 

And a quarrel indeed it was. Frank Osbourne, pas- 
sionate by nature, was wounded in this instance in the 
tenderest point. He was irritated, too, beyond all pa- 
tient endurance, by several little taunting insinuations 
which Catherine had thrown out by way of relieving her 


60 


CHAPTEES Om WIVES. 


own mind. Above all, he was roused into absolute fury 
by the mention — the tearful mention — of her own acts 
of self-denial — her givings up, when he would give up 
nothing. How he detested the bare mention of these 
things, especially when thrown at him, as they were 
now, half in reproach, and half in self-admiration, let any 
one who has tried the experiment imagine for himself. 
Words can not describe the scene altogether, nor what 
it brought with it — least of all, what it took away. 
Tears alone afforded the wife a partial relief, while the 
husband sought his in a sudden and protracted absence 
from home. 

Catherine thought he could scarcely be intending to 
return that night, so long did she sit waiting for him 
alone. When at last she heard the sound of his key in 
the door, she was conscious of a voice — it could be no 
other than Cleveland’s — bidding a merry good-night, 
with many parting jokes, upon the steps. At last Frank 
came in, bringing with him a strong odor of tobacco, 
and looking a little more flushed than usual in the face. 
But there was nothing like pleasure there, not even the 
remains of a smile; rather a cloudy look, with an avert- 
ed eye, which did not rest upon his wife, even when he 
spoke to her, which he was compelled to do once or 
twice. So the happy couple went up stairs to bed, where 
Frank either was, or pretended to be, asleep before his 
wdfe could begin to explain or expostulate. And so she, 
who had the worst of it, cried herself to sleep, as wives 
have done before, and as wives most likely will do to the 
end of time. 


CHAPTER III, 

The beautiful system which Catherine had laid down 
for herself, and which was to work such wonders in the 


SELF-DEVOTIOiq-. 


61 


way of producing gratitude and affection, had certainly 
begun far from well ; for though the first quarrel passed 
over without having any very serious consequences be- 
yond that which is, indeed, sufficiently serious — the per- 
petual dread of a second — yet it was only by the wife 
giving up her point entirely, and promising to be courte- 
ous and kind to her husband’s friend whenever he might 
come, that a sincere and total reconciliation was effected. 
Then, indeed, her husband was all affection and tender- 
ness as before, promising so generously to forget and for- 
give, that, but for the tears that would rush into her 
eyes, Catherine could have laughed to think how entire- 
ly he regarded her as the offending party, when all the 
while — she was still quite sure of it in her own mind — 
she was the aggrieved one. At all events, she knew she 
was the sufferer. But then this was so different from 
the kind of suffering she had anticipated. She had ex- 
pected to suffer as an angel ; now she was suffering in 
some sort as a criminal. How could it be that her 
whole theory of conjugal life was thus overthrown? 

Catherine pondered and puzzled over this question day 
and night. She was not an obstinate, nor determinedly 
blind woman ; and therefore she hoped, with some rea- 
son, that some time or other light would come upon this 
most perplexing question. In the mean time she had 
enough to do ; and blessed is that occupation — especially 
blessed if for those we love — which fills up the time with 
real duties, when the mind would otherwise be wander- 
ing after speculative ones, and the affections, it might be, 
putting out feelers in search of pain. 

Yes, there was always enough to do in that small 
household, where the master was in the habit of bringing 
home other friends, as well as Cleveland; and though he 
had already begun to look very serious about the weekly 
bills of his wife’s housekeeping, he was by no means 


62 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


willing to submit to the least curtailment of that liberal 
hospitality which he gloried in, as well as thoroughly 
enjoyed ; and Catherine, having early annoyed him so 
much about her own givings up, had unfortunately lost 
the power of making him listen to reason on these points. 
So the domestic wheels at times went rather heavily to 
the wife, being clogged with difficulties which she could 
see no possible way of removing. 

By degrees, however, Catherine was now acquiring a 
habit of extreme care-taking, contriving, and almost 
pinching behind the scenes, really denying herself com- 
forts for the sake of keeping up appearances, thus mak- 
ing her husband pleased with his table, and consequent- 
ly with her. But all this seemed very unfair to one who 
liked justice. It wounded Catherine’s sense of right, 
making her heart at times feel very sore : it was so dif- 
ferent from the state of things she had contemplated. 
Here was she, toiling and suffering, and making sacri- 
fices indeed — sacrifices of a nature which rendered it, in 
a certain sense, mean even to mention them. The worst 
of all was that her husband knew nothing about what 
she was doing, or giving up ; and if she did but hint at 
the true state of the case, he flew in a passion directly, 
so that she had no chance of obtaining credit, or excit- 
ing gratitude, by what she did. What a total overthrow 
of her beautiful theory — of that system by which she 
was to come out so imposing in her generous heroism ! 
All that she had intended should be great, was treated 
as if utterly mean ; and all that she had expected to com- 
mand the warmest love and admiration, seemed only to 
awaken anger and contempt. 

But to one solid ground of comfort Catherine always 
returned. Her husband loved her, that was certain. 
He was fond of caressing her, liked to see her cheerful 
and well dressed, and would have her always about him 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


63 


when at home. He told her every thing — at least, so it 
seemed ; laid his heart bare before her ; consulted her ; 
asked her advice though he did not always take it ; and, 
indeed, as the world goes, he might by comparison be 
said almost to dote upon his wife, except only on certain 
occasions when she happened to vex him, and that was 
always when she made a parade of what she suffered 
and endured for him. 

It was altogether a delicate, as well as doubtful posi- 
tion in which Catherine stood — she had so much to lose, 
and apparently nothing to gain ; but, as already said, 
she had enough to do. She had also naturally good 
spirits and good health to help her through. She had, 
besides, the pleasure of knowing that her husband was 
busily and pleasantly occupied. His picture was pro- 
gressing successfully; and Catherine had not unfre- 
quently the satisfaction of hearing it favorably spoken 
of by those who visited the studio. Cleveland was 
warm in his praises of it; and Catherine had never 
liked him so well as one day when he pointedly directed 
his encomiums upon the picture to herself, as if some 
natural impulse of a true heart had told him it was the 
most agreeable thing in the world to a woman to hear 
her husband praised. 

Catherine often went and sat beside the happy artist 
while he was at work. She possessed no skill in art 
herself, but the subject of the picture affected her deep- 
ly. It was a widow and her infant child. Frank called 
it the “ Legacy.” To a mere connoisseur in art, the 
dark dress of the principal figure, and the general want 
of warmth in the coloring, spoiled the picture ; but to 
those who looked long enough and thoughtfully enough 
to appreciate the feeling intended to be conveyed, it 
was a touching and beautiful scene, as full of tenderness 
as truth. 


64 


CHAPTEKS OIS" WIVES. 


Catherine perhaps felt this the more that she was pre- 
paring for a little picture of her own, to be added to 
the domestic exhibition at the villa ; and in these prep- 
arations, as well as in her husband’s anticipations of suc- 
cess, she managed to make herself very happy upon the 
whole, in spite of those clouds of anxiety about ways 
and means which sometimes cast a shadow over her 
path. 

The eventful day at length arrived when Frank Os- 
bourne was to know the fato of his picture, so far, at 
least, as to its position in the rooms of the Royal Acad- 
emy. Either the widow’s black dress, or more probably 
the potency of other claims to the best places, decided 
the question — Frank’s “Legacy” was hung dbom the 
line. His friends were indignant, he himself almost fran- 
tic; for there was more depending upon that picture 
than he had explained to any one. 

In a fit of something bordering on madness, Frank 
Osbourne flew home to his wife, threw himself upon a 
low stool at her feet, and buried his face in her lap. 
Catherine could not conceive what had occurred, but by 
this time she had become so far accustomed to her hus- 
band’s extravagant emotions as to be able to witness 
them without any painful alarm ; so she did what was 
very natural under the circumstances — she tried softly 
and gently to draw away the flounce of her French 
barege dress, so that it should not be irrecoverably dam- 
aged by her husband’s close pressure. Softly and gently 
as she tried to do this, however, he had the misfortune 
to feel it, and to understand what she was about. Sud- 
denly tossing back his head, he looked her full in the face 
for a moment — the next he had started to his feet ; and 
then, without a word, he rushed out of the house, and 
did not return until late in the evening. 

“ I wonder what I have done now,” said Catherine, 


SELF-DEVOTIOIf. 


65 


in a state of blank astonishment, “ and what can be the 
matter. Some remark upon his picture, I dare say, has 
annoyed him. As to me, I might surely take care of 
my dress, seeing it is the only respectable one I have to 
wear.’’ 

Upon the whole, Catherine did not make herself very 
unhappy on this occasion. She thought the storm would 
blow over, and certainly she experienced no feeling of 
self-condemnation to make her husband’s displeasure 
more bitter to her. So she sat working very industri- 
ously at a little frock, which grew prettier every hour 
under her hands, sometimes even rounding itself out al- 
most mto the shape of a plump little baby, until her 
thoughts wandered pleasantly on to the young heart 
that would one day be beating within those muslin folds ; 
and then she thought, too, how happy this little addition 
to their domestic interest would make her husband, and 
how patient ! — for patience, she fancied, was the only 
thing wanting to render him the best of men. 

In the midst of these agreeable occupations, both of 
hand and head, her husband came home, not flushed this 
evening, but looking very pale — pale and almost hag- 
gard, as if he had lived months since the previous day. 

“ Are you at liberty for a long talk to-night, Kate ?” 
he said. 

“ Yes, quite,” answered Catherine good-humoredly, for 
she knew by the use of that familiar name that her hus- 
band’s displeasure with her was gone. 

“ Then lay down that work,” he said. 

“ I was just finishing, and — ” 

“Ko, no; lay it down, or I won’t say another word.” 

Catherine did as she was bid. It only made the dif- 
ference of about ten minutes, so she quietly folded her 
hands, and prepared to listen. 

Frank sat down opposite to her, and leaned both his 


66 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


arms upon a small round table at which she had been 
working, so that he could look closely and steadily into 
the face of his wife. 

“ I have something to tell you,” he said, in rather a 
choking voice — “ something which, if I had been a just 
and honorable man, I should have told you before we 
married.” 

Catherine began to tremble a good deal, and her lips 
felt as if stiffening with a sudden frost. She begged 
him to go on — to be quick about it — to tell her all at 
once. 

“ It is about money,” he said. 

“Thank God!” exclaimed Catherine, and the blood 
came back to her face. 

She now leaned her arms on the table too. She seemed 
not to care what her husband had to tell her now, her 
womanly, fancy having, in all probability, been flying off 
to something so much more terrible than any calamity 
which money could possibly bring to her. 

“ I don’t think you will ever forgive me,” Frank be- 
gan again, with a long-drawn breath. 

“ Try me,” said his wife. 

“Well, then, I was a very poor man when I asked you 
to marry me — poorer even than I cared to acknowledge 
to myself at the time. You knew I never kept any ac- 
counts, nor had the remotest idea of the expense of fit- 
ting up a house. Yet I wanted to bring you to a pretty 
home, and to make you feel that you had lost but little 
in the way of comfort by marrying me. So I borrowed 
— ^borrowed a good round sum of money, in the confi- 
dence that I should succeed in my profession, as every 
body told me I should be sure to do. You know how I 
have worked at this picture — never so perseveringly at 
any thing in my life. You know, too, how my heart was 
set upon it. In fact, this picture was to be the making 


SELF-DEVOTIOIS-. 


67 


of me. It was to bring me in orders more than I could 
execute, and, so soon as I could see my way clear before 
me, I was going to tell you all, for I should not have 
cared then. Now — now, you see — ■ Oh, Kate, it is hor- 
rible to think of! Kobody will ever even see my j)ic- 
ture, all owing to the meanness and spite of those fel- 
lows. By the way, I intend to show them up. Cleve- 
land is going to write to the Times / but that is neither 
here nor there just now. The money is owing — it must 
be paid; and I have nothing to show as a plea for 
delay.” 

“There is mine,” said Catherine; for her father had 
insisted upon her little fortune, if such it might be called, 
being settled upon herself. “ There is mine,” she re- 
peated, thinking her husband could not understand ; and 
she said this in a prompt, clear, and straightforward 
manner, as if it was the simplest and the most likely 
thing in the world that her money should be so appro- 
priated. 

“ Ah !” said Frank, in a perfect agony, “ that is what 
I have been thinking. But what a mean and despicable 
fellow it makes of me, that I should furnish my house 
with borrowed money, and then come upon you for the 
payment.” 

“ I don’t see that at all,” said Catherine. “ Is not the 
house mine as well as yours ? I only wish you had told 
me sooner, that this load might have been taken off 
your mind. Oh, Frank, what a little matter this is be- 
tween you and me! Never think twice about it, but 
get every thing paid to-morrow. I am so glad to know. 
I hope there is enough in the bank. Only think, to- 
morrow we shall be all right again — not a penny owing 
— not a cloud between us !” 

“ Do you really mean it ?” said Frank. “ Why, yes, I 
know you mean it ; but do you really feel pleased, as 


68 


CHAPTERS ON' WIVES. 


you say ? Do you really mean that you think so little 
about giving up that money which was to be kept against 
a future day ?” 

“ I mean every thing I say, Frank. I mean that I 
never was so happy in my life as I shall be to-morrow, 
when we get the money, and I see you go out to pay 
every farthing that we owe. And let us never run into 
debt again, Frank, as long as we live, whatever may 
happen to us.”' 

Catherine expressed herself with so much candor and 
decision, and she looked so heartily and cheerfully in 
earnest, that no sooner had Frank become thoroughly 
convinced of her sincerity, than he gl/idly acceded to 
the only plan which remained available for the re-estab- 
lishment of his honor and integrity. The next thing he 
did was to surrender himself, with all his accustomed 
facility of impression, to the happiness of feeling him- 
self again a free and independent man; and just in jiro- 
portion as these feelings animated and cheered him, his 
gratitude to his wife overflowed all bounds of modera- 
tion, and he poured into her astonished ear the eloquent 
language of an afiection as unlimited in its warmth as in 
its admiration. 

In the secret of her heart Catherine wondered exceed- . 
ingly what all this could mean, and whence it had arisen. 
She had done nothing, sufiered nothing, sacrificed noth- 
ing, that she was aware of, to justify such an amount of 
gratitude. She had been actuated only by a simple 
sense of right, and did not see how she could have done 
otherwise ; for she was an upright, honorable woman, 
and with her feelings and principles it would have been 
absolute pain not to have obeyed the dictates of this 
sense of right. Again she was perplexed in her theory 
— utterly confused and puzzled with regard to all her 
preconceived notions of the virtue and the charm of 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


69 


self-sacrifice. \Yhy did her husband become angry and 
annoyed when she told him of what she had really given 
up, or suffered for his sake? And now, when she had 
given up nothing, and certainly suffered nothing, but 
simply done what was right, and gratified herself even 
more than him in doing it, why did he pour into her ear 
such language as this? — language pleasant enough in 
itself, but wholly inapplicable to the occasion, as it seemed 
to her. 

Human life was becoming more ^id more a mystery 
to Catherine; and had she not beei^obliged, about this 
time, to study it under its more strictly physical aspect, 
she might have become bewildered in the mazes of its 
eccentric and often contradictory course. 

Before the summer months were passed, Catherine had 
become the happy mother of a healthy and promising 
child — a little son, born to no great fortune in a pecunia- 
ry point of view, yet inheriting, as his more blessed 
birthright, as much affection as two warm and united 
hearts could bestow upon him. 

The grateful feelings inspired by Catherine’s conduct 
respecting the money, and the actual pleasure of having 
got rid of every debt, continued to keep Frank Osbourne 
in the best of humors until the birth of the little boy. 
Then indeed there was joy throughout the villa — a just 
and legitimate cause for making merry with his friends ; 
and he invited them accordingly, with more extended 
hospitality than ever before. 

Catherine grew frightened at the turn her husband’s 
increased cheerfulness had taken. She herself was under 
the necessity of engaging additional help ; but even with 
that she had enough to do to make all things work 
smoothly with such an increase of trouble consequent 
upon her husband’s happiness. 

To be freed from old debts is, with some men, only an 


10 


CHAPTEKS ON WIVES. 


excuse for incurring new ones, and Frank Osbourne 
thought little of running up a bill — -just “ a mere noth- 
ing,” he said — here and there. Such things must be had, 
and really each one in itself was too trifling to cost a 
thought; besides which, an unexpected piece of good 
luck had fallen to his share. Before the closing of the 
exhibition his picture had been discovered and appreci- 
ated by the discerning eye of a stranger ; and, beyond 
this, it had absolutely been bought. True, no other 
order followed, for it was less the skill of the painter 
than the pathos of the subject which had struck the 
stranger’s fancy, and thus he had taken it to his distant 
home, and probably had never thought of the painter 
again. However, this was something — a feather in 
Frank’s cap — an arrow in his quiver to shoot against de- 
spondency whenever it should attack his happiness again. 
But as to the household economy, which Catherine had 
to care for, it may be doubted whether the sale of the 
picture did not rather increase than diminish her anxie- 
ties in that department. 

Indeed, before the winter of that year, things had be- 
gun to look rather cloudy and depressing in some as- 
pects of life within the villa. Little carking household 
cares were pressing upon Catherine with great urgency. 
What to retain, and what to do without, was the ques- 
tion of every day. Fires were very expensive to keep 
up in so many rooms, and she thought it might be possi- 
ble to economize in this item of outlay. The conse- 
quences would fall chiefly upon herself, and of that she 
must not speak. Indeed, she found it extremely difficult 
to reason with her husband at all on the subject of econ- 
omy, because he began immediately to think she was 
harping upon the old string, and would consequently be 
reminding him of how her money had gone to pay his 
debts. Nothing could be farther from Catherine’s 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


71 


thoughts than this ; but the mischief she had done, in 
the first ordeal of her married fife, by something too 
much like a parade of her sacrifices, was not to be reme- 
died by any art or effort of hers now ; and she had con- 
sequently a difficult path to tread — afraid, on the one 
hand, to go on as they were now, living beyond their 
means; and, on the other hand, afraid to bring upon 
herself those reproaches from her husband, which never 
came so bitterly as when they hinted at a meanness and 
selfishness on her part of which she was wholly incapable. 

Here was indeed a difficult situation for a right-mind- 
ed and true-hearted woman ; but under this peculiar set 
of trials it was plain to Catherine that no human help 
could avail her. She could not even ask for human sym- 
pathy. To no one but her husband would it be justifi- 
able to open her lips on these subjects, and to him her 
lips must now be closed. How was it that, while pursu- 
ing this narrow and difficult walk, Catherine was far 
from being either melancholy or desponding ? Her cheer- 
fulness was sometimes a wonder to herself. One secret 
of her cheerfulness was in her lovely child, and in all she 
had to do for him ; another, in those evidences of her 
husband’s affection, which he never withheld except un- 
der some momentary fit of irritation ; and, beyond all, 
Catherine was practically unraveling that mystery which, 
as a mere theory, she would never have been able to 
comprehend. 

Whether from the actual and faithful discharge of her 
womanly duties — whether from the necessity of thinking 
so much for others as often most effectually to forget 
herself — perhaps from many causes combined, and cer- 
tainly not least from the happiness diffused around her 
by the growing interest attaching to her child — Cath- 
erine certainly began, from this period, to practice much 
more actual self-denial than before, and yet to think 


'72 


CHAPTEKS ON WIVES. 


much less about it. To her it seemed only that want 
of time precluded the possibility of making any calcula- 
tions on these points. What she had to do must actual- 
ly be done ; and as the landscape, under the diffusion of 
the sun’s rays, will suddenly assume a new aspect, some- 
times without the beholder being exactly conscious how 
or why, so her character was becoming more lovely by 
the disciiiline of circumstances, without any conscious- 
ness on her part that it was improving. 

The one great j)oint w^hich Catherine seemed now to 
set about, in an earnest and hearty manner, to make ev- 
ery one around her as comfortable as possible. Things 
had arrived at such a pass that she actually could not 
afford many fires, nor, indeed, much company. For the 
first piece of economy she cheerfully compounded by al- 
lowing, what she had once thought impossible — smoking 
in the drawing-room; and she managed this so good- 
humoredly, that her husband thought she really enjoyed 
it. Whether his friend Cleveland was equally deceived 
remains to be shown. With regard to company, Cath- 
erine fancied that Cleveland really supported her ; for he 
adopted a happy method of persuading Frank that com- 
pany was a bore, and that nothing was so pleasant as to 
sit over the winter’s fire alone with him ; and Catherine 
encroached a little on her part too, which made the 
whole arrangement more equal. For want of that addi- 
tional help which she was now trying to do without, she 
was compelled to take a large share of the care of her 
baby herself ; and thus a very elegant little cot stood in 
a corner beside the drawing-room fire, with the little un- 
conscious intruder generally fast asleep when her hus- 
band came up from dinner. By these arrangements two 
fires were spared ; and, instead of enduring the privation 
as a calamity, Catherine would laughingly make much 
of her own infringement of the drawing-room etiquette. 


SELF-DEVOTION. Y3 

in order to make the gentlemen more at ease on account 
of theirs. 

Although Cleveland was still a frequent guest, Cath- 
erine did not mind him as formerly. Once having over- 
come her prejudices so as to try to think kindly of him, 
his whole character assumed in her eyes a different as- 
pect. True she thought him indolent — wished he was 
better employed ; but, as regarded themselves, he had 
the art of fitting into their little establishment so unob- 
trusively; and now that they were better acquainted, 
and he conversed more freely before her, she found him 
sometimes such really good company, that she would 
have been sorry to lose him entirely from their little 
circle. 

About this time Catherine observed a difference, which 
she could not have described, in Cleveland’s manner to- 
ward herself. Sometimes he seemed to be regarding her 
attentively while not conversing; but his look was not 
impertinent nor bold — rather inquiring and earnest. 
Sometimes she even found, to her surprise, that he had 
perceived the exact opportunity for doing her some little 
service, which he performed with an air of the utmost 
unconcern, but which, at the same time, Catherine knew 
that her husband would never have seen that she needed. 
Catherine smiled on these occasions — a happy, grateful 
smile — for it is so sweet to be understood and met in our 
little emergencies of every day. Cleveland, however, 
never seemed to notice Catherine’s grateful smile; nor 
was she hurt that, by the time she looked up to thank 
him, he had usually turned his head another way. In- 
deed, she rather preferred not coming under his pointed 
or immediate notice, so long as he had good will enough 
to do her such little services as few women can ask, but 
which, at the same time, all women are glad to receive. 

In the midst of all her troubles Catherine was now be- 

D 


74 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


ginning to feel very much like a happy woman, so clever- 
ly had she managed, without offending any one, to bring 
her household expenses within the desired limits, when a 
change came over the aspect of her life, which threaten- 
ed to throw some of its brightest promises into shade. 
The child — that cherub child, sent, as it seemed to Cath- 
erine, with a cherub’s mess%e to teach the hearts of his 
parents to rejoice, and trust in Him who gave the bless- 
ing — the little healthy, happy fellow was attacked with 
symptoms of inflammation of the lungs. In the midst 
of his laughing and crowing there came a cough, a sharp 
pain, and then a cry that went to the mother’s heart ; and 
she was wondering what it would be best to do, when 
her husband and Cleveland entered the room. 

Frank Osbourne did not at flrst believe that any thing 
was the matter, but snatched up the child, and began to 
toss him as usual, expecting his accustomed merry laugh, 
when he shrieked again, and then coughed long and 
painfully, with intervals of moaning, and an expression 
on his little face too plainly indicative of some unusual 
suffering. 

“ Put him in a warm bath,” said Cleveland hastily. 

“Would you?” asked Catherine. 

“ By all means,” he answered, “ and as quickly as you 
can. There is nothing like it ; only be very careful, or 
you will frighten him, and then he will scream, and that 
is the worst thing he can do.” 

“ Why, Cleveland,” exclaimed Frank, perfectly helpless 
and astonished. He was going to say, “ What do you 
know about children ?” But Cleveland was gone. The 
rapid closing of the front door after him was all they 
heard ; nor did they even suspect what had taken him 
away, so earnestly were they occupied about the child, 
until the arrival of their family doctor convinced them 
that he had hastened away to do the best and the kindest 
service for them all. 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


75 


Catherine had no thoughts just then for any thing 
beyond her child ; but when, in the course of a few hours, 
the symptoms had somewhat abated, and the doctor took 
his leave with a few encouraging words, she thought of 
the kind and judicious part -which Cleveland had acted ; 
for her heart was comparatively at peace then, and so 
full of gratitude that she longed to express herself to 
her husband’s friend in w^armer terms than she had ever 
addressed to him before. But he did not come to re- 
ceive her thanks ; only about ten o’clock he rang slight- 
ly at the bell, and when the servant went, he just put 
in his head for a moment at the door, asked how the 
child was going on, and then went away without another 
word. 

If Frank Osbourne was difficult to convince that his 
child was really ill, he was only the more extreme in his 
distress when the truth rushed upon him, as it did with 
overwhelming force. Indeed, his agitation and distress 
were such as to frustrate his purpose when assisting to 
carry out the doctor’s directions. Still Catherine liked 
that he should be near her, and she bore with the ut- 
most patience all the mistakes he made in snatching at 
the wrong thing, or meddling where he ought to have 
been quiet ; until at last, when the care of two watchers 
seemed absolutely unnecessary, she persuaded him to 
lie down on the sofa, where he soon fell fast asleep ; and 
the mother had then her watching and her thoughts to 
herself. 

What was the nature of those thoughts who shall de- 
scribe, or who shall set limits to what they comprehended 
of the past and the future in those fleeting moments of 
present time? Years of mental experience are some- 
times crowded into the space of a few hours ; and so it 
might be with that wakeful mother, as she sat there list- 
ening to the breathings of her child. 


IQ 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


We read of the Arctic voyagers remaining sometimes 
for days and weeks enveloped in impenetrable mist, 
through which they still pursue their dubious way, un- 
conscious of what actually lies around them. Fain would 
they look before them, or on either side, for they fancy 
this headland or that shore must be immediately in their 
course ; but all is uncertainty, a dim blank world to them, 
which yet may be pregnant with the utmost peril, or the 
most cheering hope. On, and on they go — cautiously, 
but still advancing — when suddenly, as if by enchant- 
ment, the misty veil is lifted, and they see the vast world 
before them ; the sky, the coast, the distant mountains, 
the happy-omened outlet, or, it may be, the icy barrier 
through which it is impossible to pass. 

It is even so at different stages of our individual ex- 
perience. The sudden arresting of some accustomed 
flow of feeling — the suspension of a life dear as our own 
— the night of watching by the sick — and, not unfre- 
quently, that silent converse with nature which is held 
in lonely w^anderings among her loveliest or sublimest 
scenes — in any of these moments that veil may be up- 
lifted which reveals, in all its nearness, reality, and truth, 
w^hat we had been only dreaming of before, and some- 
times what had never even entered into our dreams. 
That the veil will fall again as suddenly as it was lifted 
up, is no excuse for after deviations from the course 
which we then saw was the only right one to be pur- 
sued. We did see then; and because we did, we can 
never again draw over our convictions that cloak of ig- 
norance which, up to that time, we had worn. 

The morning of the day when it seemed, in all human 
probabihty, that her child would be saved, found Cath- 
erine a wiser and a better woman. She did not know 
this herself, still less could she have told how or why 
the change had come. She had no theory — ^no system 


SELP-DEVOTION. 


11 


now. The change wrought in her character, and which 
for some time had been creeping on, was a practical one. 
She had .been doing, rather than thinking. She had been 
doing what was positive and immediate, rather than 
.thinking of what was abstract and distant. She could 
not, however, have said what she had done, because she 
kept no account now of debtor and creditor in the way 
of serving, suffering, or giving up. Indeed, suffering, as 
belonging to herself, never entered into her calculations. 
She only knew that she felt happy when every one 
around her was so, and when things generally went right. 
If people were not happy, she must try and make them 
so : and if things were not going right, she must work 
them round as well as she could. This was all she had 
been conscious of, in the way of duty, for a good while. 
But now this solemn night, first of awe and trembling, 
then of meditation, prayer, and faith, and lastly, of bless- 
ed hope — this one night, though the dim morning found 
her with tears upon her cheek — this night, with its up- 
lifting of the earthly veil, seemed to have shown her that 
she was nearer, than she could otherwise have believed 
herself, to that peace and rest which result from com- 
mitting every thing, without reserve, into the hands of 
Him who has a right to call back any blessing he may 
choose, because he has himself bestowed all. 

And Catherine had passed through this, the searching 
trial of surrender, which might yet have to come upon 
her Avith all its fiery power. But even this could never, 
in the future, affect her now as it would have done be- 
fore that solemn night. She had seen, by the lifting of 
the veil, such light upon the distant hills, such clear shin- 
ing of the sun above the mist, such still waters in the far 
ocean toward which her little bark Avas steering, and 
such a perfect marking out of the simple course she was 
to pursue, that never could the closing in of clouds or 


78 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


vapors, or even of thick darkness, make her doubt again 
as to the realities which she had seen. 

Thus, then, it was that Catherine thought ^nd felt 
when the light of morning broke into that close and 
shrouded room. She was like one who had seen bless- 
ed visions; and she asked not how soon such visions 
grow dull upon the memory, nor how often they need to 
be renewed, in order to keep alive our sinking faith. 
For this they come again sometimes with our afflictions 
— come mercifully even then ; and sometimes they come 
with our enjoyments — with the quick happiness which 
startles us by its abundance, when it bursts like living 
water from the rock, or wells up around our feet amid 
the desert sands. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A STRANGE and novel scene was now presented by 
the interior of the villa — three human beings of mature 
age and experience apparently all wrapped up in a little 
life which seemed almost as fragile as that of the butter- 
fly. That the parents should surrender themselves to 
this strong instinct was no wonder ; but Cleveland, that 
strange, selfish, inconsiderate man, seemed absolutely to 
think as much of the boy as if he had been his own. 
And Catherine — oh, how her heart did thank and bless 
him for this ! though she found no language in which to 
express her gratitude, and perhaps he would have turn- 
ed a deaf ear to her if she had. 

After a hard struggle for so frail a creature, the victo- 
ry was won at last. Every unfavorable symptom disap- 
peared, and the little helpless form lay free from pain, 
and slept the happy sleep of returning health. All 
things in time returned to their accustomed course, al- 
though no individual of that little circle felt exactly the 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


79 


same. For the first time, when the child was brought 
into the drawing-room, all seemed at liberty to be merry 
again. The gentlemen lighted their cigars ; Catherine 
took out her work. And now they could talk over the 
news of the day, the sayings and doings of their friends, 
the occupations of the studio, or whatever might have 
any passing interest. Once or twice, while this conver- 
sation was going on, Catherine started to hear a little 
cough from within the cot beside the fire. Each time 
she rose from her seat, put her head down, and listened 
to the breathing of the child. 

“It is the smoke,” she said to herself; “but I will not 
mention it. They will soon have finished.” 

On returning to her seat, Catherine’s eye caught a 
peculiar expression on Cleveland’s face. He gave her a 
nod of recognition, as if thinking exactly the same 
thoughts with herself, and immediately threw his cigar 
into the fire. Without a word he took Frank’s from his 
fingers, and did the same with that. 

“ Come, come,” said Frank, “ what are you about ?” 
for he was more obtuse than his friend on some points. 

“ We are making that little fellow cough. Don’t you 
hear ?” said Cleveland. 

“ Why, Katey !” exclaimed Frank, springing up, and 
closing, the box of cigars which he had opened for the 
especial enjoyment of that evening, “ why did you not 
tell us ?” 

“There was no need,” said Catherine, looking at 
Cleveland. “ I had such a good friend here and with- 
out a moment’s thought of what she was doing, she laid 
her hand upon his arm and said, “Poor Benedict! I wish 
you had a good wife of your own, and a little boy like 
ours.” 

Had Catherine looked into Cleveland’s face, without a 
certain mist that would come into her own eyes, she 


80 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


might have seen that this little hasty speech of hers had 
made him very uncomfortable. But she was too thank- 
ful — too happy to notice any thing but his considerate 
kindness. And then her next thought was how to make 
up, both to her husband and him, for what they were 
denying themselves. An idea struck her. She ran down 
into her kitchen, sent out for something they both liked 
for supper, and, after keeping up a lively conversation 
until it was ready, ate of it so heartily herself as to make 
them both believe that it was for her own sake, quite as 
much as theirs, this addition to their accustomed indul- 
gence had been made. 

The boy coughed no more that night, and Catherine 
retired to rest more happy than any one would have be- 
lieved possible who could have witnessed her recent 
sorrow. Why should she not be happy? Her child 
was restored to her again; there was not a cloud be- 
tween her husband and herself ; she had found a friend 
in his friend, and had learned to love and trust where she 
had recently felt almost determined to suspect and hate. 

“ What injustice I have done him !” was Catherine’s 
mental exclamation as often as she thought of Cleve- 
land ; and, under the influence of this conviction, she ex- 
2)erienced a constantly-recurring impulse to be more than 
usually attentive and kind to the man whom her thoughts 
had wronged. This impulse, however, she mostly suc- 
ceeded in restraining ; for there was that about her hus- 
band’s friend which tended always, more or less, to keep 
women at a distance. Ho woman, in fact, could have 
felt sure that her attentions were agreeable to one who, 
whether justly or not, had obtained the credit of caring 
only for himself. Catherine, on a slight acquaintance, 
had rushed to this conclusion ; but she had lately learn- 
ed to think it possible that abstraction might not be self- 
absorption ; and when Cleveland sat beside her, moody 


SELF-DEVOTIOI^-. 


81 


and silent, as he often did, she felt by no means certain 
that his thoughts were centred in himself. Once, in- 
deed, he surprised her by asking suddenly if she knew 
the story of Griselda. 

“ To be sure,” she answered. “ All women are made 
acquainted with that model of patience. The lesson was 
taught me in my childhood.” 

“ I should suppose so,” observed Cleveland. 

“Why?” 

“ You seem to have learned it so well.” 

“ I !” 

“Yes, you.” 

“ I can not imagine what you mean. I am not tried, 
you see, like poor Griselda, and I fear I should sadly 
want her patience if I were.” 

“It seems to me you are tried though, and I often 
wonder what is to be the end of it.” 

“ I can not understand you. Why, I am almost the 
happiest woman in existence.” 

“ Yes, Katey, because you are almost the best. May 
I call you Katey ?” 

“Ko; that is the name my husband calls me. But 
you may call me Catherine if you like, and if you will 
acknowledge me as a sister, and be a good bachelor 
uncle to my boy, and leave him a fortune.” 

“ I will be his bachelor uncle gladly ; but as to the 
fortune — ” 

“ Well, now, Cleveland, I will be equal with you. You 
have been thinking about me, it seems, very unnecessa- 
rily, and I have been thinking about you.” 

“ Quite as unnecessarily, I dare say.” 

“Ko, no, I won’t allow that. I have been thinking 
very much to the purpose, and altogether for your good. 
But first I want to know one thing, if you won’t consid- 
er that I am making too free.” 

D 2 


82 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


“ I don’t think I shall. What is it ?” 

“ I want to know what — in short, I must say it, and 
you must forgive me — what are your prosjiects in life ?” 

“ Heaven help me ! what a question !” 

“ Heaven, you know, helps those who help them- 
selves.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean that if I were a man I would he a man. I 
would do something worthy of a man.” 

“ You mean if you were a great, idle, stupid fellow, 
wanting only to smoke and eat, you would not hang 
about a little paradise like this, where you had no right 
to pollute the air, and to take the children’s bread out 
of their mouths.” 

“ I don’t mean any such thing, Cleveland, and you 
know that I don’t. There is nothing in me — I may say 
so much for myself surely — there is nothing in me — 
there never can be any thing to justify such a conclu- 
sion. I am not mean, Cleveland, nor stingy — you know 
I am not.” 

“ Yes, Catherine, I know that almost to my cost. If 
you had been mean — nay, if you had not been more no- 
ble, and forbearing, and generous than any other woman 
— I should have gone away somewhere, and not remain- 
ed a hanger-on here, where you have a right to be tired 
of seeing me.” 

“ Come, Cleveland, we won’t talk in that way. It is 
beneath us both. There is something widely different 
from that, which I have long wanted to say to you, and 
no opportunity can be better than the present ; for my 
husband will be late to-day, and I want to talk to you 
alone.” 

A pure womanly and wifish feeling enabled Catherine 
to say this, as alone it could be said with perfect safety, 
gravely, and with her eyes cast down. She knew just 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


83 


then that she was blushing deeply, for the step she was 
about to take seemed a bold one ; and had she looked 
up, there would have been that expression in her eyes 
which is always deepened and intensified by the act of 
blushing. Had she smiled, too, while looking up — and 
she had the sweetest of smiles, peculiarly her own, set 
off by the whitest of pearly teeth — the man whom she 
wanted so much to talk to about himself might have 
been tempted to think only of her, and that would have 
spoiled all. Women understand all this by instinct: it 
is of no use pretending that they don’t. Hence that 
power which some have the wickedness to exercise 
where they ought not, but which others have the virtue 
to suppress. 

Catherine was of the latter class. N'ot for worlds 
would she have violated by word or look — not even by 
the minutest fraction of a smile — the sacredness of her 
allegiance to her husband, who still was far from under- 
standing her, or knowing half her worth. She therefore 
went on, without once looking up while the blush re- 
mained upon her cheek, talking rapidly, with the utmost 
directness, and with so little reference to herself or oth- 
ers that the man whom she addressed might have been 
the only being in the world. The practical tendency of 
what she said was to stir him up to be something, to do 
something, to act worthily of himself, and so to become 
a better and a happier man. 

Cleveland bore all that Catherine said with a patient 
submission, which affected her deeply. He rose from 
his seat, and then, placing himself by the fire, stood lean- 
ing forward with his head bent down, as if penetrated 
through every nerve and fibre of his frame by the force 
of the simple words to which he was listening. At last, 
when Catherine ceased, Cleveland returned to his seat, 
and, looking her steadily in the face, said, in a voice 


84 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


which trembled as she had never heard it before, “ You 
don’t know all, my good monitress. May I tell you 
something ?” 

“Yes, every thing,” replied Catherine. 

“Well, then,” he began, “I was unlucky from my 
birth, because I had family distinction, and good con- 
nections, and all that people call advantages^ with noth- 
ing to live upon except pride for the present and expect- 
ations for the future. My mother died when I was in 
my cradle. Would that I had died with her ! I had no 
female acquaintance but a nurse. No ladies visited at 
our house. My father speculated, and lost what little 
property he had. Then I became a burden to him — a 
mere hanger-on, you see, always. I saw it, read it in 
my father’s every act and look ; and yet he had never 
had me trained to any business or profession. I wish I 
had been a shoeblack, or a groom. There was but one 
thing I could do, he said — I could marry. So I was 
dragged into society. They said I was good-looking 
then. I must have been something rather extraordinary, 
or the women were great fools ; for more than one — ^but 
that is nothing to the purpose. There was one especial- 
ly upon whom my father’s heart was set. We wanted 
money, and her father wanted a lift in the way of good 
connections. So the match was made between the par- 
ents on both sides, and we were married. My wife ! — 
Good heavens ! that I should call her so ! She was the 
only woman with whom I ever was intimately acquaint- 
ed until I saw you. Pardon me the mention of her in 
the same sentence with yourself. A mean-spirited, self- 
ish, coarse, and heartless man is bad enough ; but a 
woman ! Well, we soon hated one another cordially, 
unalterably, and we separated. She went her way, and 
I went mine, only that I had literally no way to go ; for 
I gave up every thing to her, on condition that she gave 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


85 


me back my name, and did not bear it about with her to 
France, or Italy, or wherever she might choose to go.” 

“ And where is she now asked Catherine, woman- 
like. 

“ I don’t know. I care less. I would not listen to 
any one who should be inclined to tell me.” 

“ Perhaps she is altered.” 

“ Not to me.” 

“ Ah ! Cleveland, did you ever try to make her bet- 
ter ?” 

“ To my certain knowledge I never did.” 

“ Then what could you expect ?” 

“ I expected very little in the way of happiness, but I 
found even less than I looked for.” 

“ She had been badly brought up.” 

“ She was made of bad materials.” 

“ I don’t believe that altogether.” 

“ You would have believed it in her case.” 

“ No, I should never believe it, unless you had tried to 
improve her — tried kindly, and patiently, and long, and 
had failed at last.” 

“ That proof I certainly am unable to bring to show 
the truth of what I say. But let us talk of something 
else ; it curdles my blood to think of that woman.” 

“ Oh, Cleveland ! how unjust, how cruel you have been ! 
But, as you say, let us talk of something else. Only I 
feel so disappointed in you. Why, I had begun to think 
you the kindest of men. I am sure you have a kind heart, 
after all.” 

“ Behold, then, what a selfish, mean-spirited woman can 
do with such a heart — sear it, poison it, murder it, make 
a man loathe himself even more than he hates the cause 
of his misery and degradation ! Oh, Catherine, you do 
not know the power that belongs to you as Avomen !” 

“ And yet it seems to me that man, as the stronger, 


86 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


ought to bear the most important part in the domestic 
concern, rather rectifying what is wrong in the woman, 
than expecting her to make him right.” 

“ One would think so, if God had not clearly ordained 
it otherwise. There is a great mystery in all these mat- 
ters.” 

“ There is ; but don’t talk to me of mystery. I have 
had enough of that. Happily, some things are clear 
enough, if we will but see them. One of the best of 
these clear certainties is, that yonder stands my blessed 
husband at the garden gate. So now we will have din- 
ner if you please.” 

With which conclusion Catherine ran down into the 
hall to meet her husband first, and then to hasten every 
preparation for his comfort and enjoyment. 

Catherine tried very much that day to be as cheerful 
as usual, or even more so; but every now and then a 
thoughtful mood took possession of her, and a visible 
anxiety overshadowed her face. Her husband was very 
much absorbed in some business which had occupied him 
that day; so much so, indeed, as not to observe that 
Cleveland also was far from being an attentive listener to 
his long and circumstantial description of what had been 
taking place. As the evening passed on, however, each 
member of the little party wore his accustomed look. 
There was no smoking in the drawing-room now. There 
never had been since the child was ill. Cleveland pro- 
tested against it as a barbarism, and Frank would have 
been ashamed to smoke alone. 

Catherine, feeling gratefully that this giving up was 
chiefly on her account, considered herself doubly bound 
to contribute her whole share to the cheerfulness of the 
evening hours ; and, assisted by a thankful heart, and 
genuine good will, she discovered powers of conversa- 
tional amusement in herself which she had never been 
aware of before. 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


8V 


The child helped her too. He had a fancy now that 
he would not sleep in such good company ; so, with flush- 
ed cheeks and sparkling eyes, he sat upon his mother’s 
knee, playing off with great success all the little tricks 
which Cleveland was so clever in teaching him. 

“ Remember,” said Catherine, as she bade good-night 
to the guest, when at a late hour he prepared to depart 
— “ remember, you are now the adopted uncle of this 
boy ; and you will be sure to leave him a fortune, won’t 
you ?” 

“ I must make it first,” said Cleveland. 

“We shall see,” were the last words he heard from 
Catherine ; but he fancied they were uttered in a pecul- 
iar tone, and might have reference to some passages in 
their previous conversation. 

CHAPTER V. 

Although the domestic economy of the villa was now 
conducted on a safer and more prudent plan than former- 
ly, yet neither the safety nor the prudence had any war- 
rant for security, because there was wanting to their cer- 
tain permanence a perfect understanding between the 
master and the mistress of the house. It was entirely 
by Catherine’s skill and good management, by taxing her 
powers of invention beyond all moderate bounds, and by 
constant giving up, with much patient endurance on her 
part, that any thing like a comfortable adaptation of 
means to ends could be attained. 

Such a state of things was not calculated to last ; nor 
was it right that it should last. Catherine herself felt 
this, and the only great wish of her heart which now re- 
mained unsatisfied was, that her husband could be brought 
to understand the real state of things at home without 
her telling him. In fact, they were not working togeth- 


88 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


er ; and, until this could be brought about, there could be 
no certainty that they might not at any moment be 
working against each other; not from opposition, but 
from pure ignorance on one hand ; and a knowledge, on 
the other, which the one who was the most concerned in 
it was still unable to communicate. 

“ What is to help a woman thus circumstanced ? What, 
or who,” said Catherine to herself, “ except that kind Fa- 
ther in heaven who sees and knov/s it all ?” 

So she worked on — worked and prayed, and never cal- 
culated how long it would be before the happy issue out 
of all this trouble would come ; nor took account of the 
chances of its never coming at all, nor of what she had 
herself to do and suffer in the mean time ; but worked 
and prayed, and took each day’s duties as they came, 
and made herself a very happy woman, notwithstanding 
the disproportionate domestic burden which she had to 
bear. 

It was impossible that Catherine should be so far 
raised above human weakness as not to be consoled, un- 
der this one trouble, by the constant evidences she was 
now receiving that, if her husband 'svas blind to her true 
situation, his friend was not. There is something so 
pleasant in having our little untold sacrifices known and 
appreciated — something so gratifying in having the best 
parts of our characters and actions observed and valued 
at their true worth, that Catherine had more than once 
to rouse herself, and set her face resolutely against the 
temptation to speak of these things to Cleveland ; and, 
when he noticed them, to let him'know how truly grate- 
ful she was for his consideration. Happily for her, she 
was checked in this by the startling idea that, in so do- 
ing, she would be confiding in a man ’who was not her 
husband on points ’which exclusively concerned her hus- 
band and herself. 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


89 


So Catherine refrained most scrupulously and entirely 
from talking too intimately about herself in all her pri- 
vate interviews with Cleveland. A married woman, she 
considered, has no separate self ; and therefore she can 
have no self to be talked about confidingly with any man 
but her husband. 

It would have been easy, in Catherine’s case, to find 
excuses for yielding to this temptation ; for it was evi- 
dent that Cleveland now saw much which he either would 
not or could not see in the earlier stages of their ac- 
quaintance. He had not believed in any woman then ; 
but so soon as he believed, he understood ; and, with his 
naturally quick apprehension of motives and characters, 
there was added. to his knowledge a deep sympathy, 
now for the first time called forth on behalf of the female 
sharer in the domestic burden. And, with all this, he 
could be so gentle and unobtrusive, when his best feel- 
ings were roused into exercise — not impulsive, ill-timed, 
and extravagant, like his friend, Frank Osbourne, but 
tender, watchful, and most appropriate in all his kind at- 
tentions. 

But now there was a great duty which Catherine had 
to discharge, which often occupied her anxious thoughts, 
but which she took upon herself, alike without hesitation, 
and without presumption. It related to her husband’s 
friend. She called him her friend now ; and loving him, 
as she had lately learned to do, the duty must be done. 
This simple must was present with her night and day, 
unattended still by any calculations about means or con- 
sequences. She had a clear view of that which ought to 
be, and she must do her part toward bringing it about. 
So one day, when Cleveland was seated beside her, she 
began. She had grown bolder now; she did not blush 
at all, but looked steadily in the face of her friend, while 
she said — 


90 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


“ Cleveland, have you ever thought of going out to 
settle in a new colony — in Australia, for instance ?” 

Cleveland started up from his seat. 

“ You must he a witch, Catherine,” he said, “ to have 
divined what was in my thoughts. Why, that is the 
very subject I wanted to talk to you about, only I have 
put off from day to day, glad of any excuse that kept me 
here, yet certain all the time that you would bid me go.” 

“ I think, if I were you, I would go,” said Catherine. 

“ Would you ?” 

“Yes. You know you are peculiarly circumstanced 
— peculiarly constituted. Old associations must be con- 
stantly jarring against your nerves while you remain 
here.” 

“ Yet some associations are very dear.” 

“ Take them with you as a private store of comfort. 
But you must work — indeed you must. Life is not 
worthy the pain it costs as you are living.” 

“I know it, I feel it. No one can hate this idleness 
more than I do myself. But what can I do there, where 
you would send me ?” 

“Oh! I am certain you have powers, energies, re- 
sources within you, that would spring up to your own 
astonishment. And then you would be so happy.” 

“Don’t talk in that way, Catherine. For mercy’s 
sake, leave the happiness out of the question.” 

“No, I won’t. I am quite sure you will be a happy 
man yet, Cleveland, if only you will work ; and — there 
is something else you must do besides.” 

“ What is that ?” 

“ You must pray.” 

“ What if I have done that already ?” 

“ Then I thank God for you from the bottom of my 
heart, and am sure that all will yet go well.” 

“ Tell me one thing, Catherine.” 


SELF-DEVOTION’. 


91 


“ I will tell you any thing that I ought to tell.” 

“Well, then, say truly — ^has this idea come across your 
mind as a matter of right on my own account, or — or^I 
hardly know how to express it — or, in short, because you 
think it better for Frank and you that I should be got 
out of the way ?” 

“ Ah ! Cleveland, you don’t know what it is to have a 
friend like you, or you would never ask that question. 
Why, the poor child will miss you, and more and more 
as he grows older. Frank will miss you — I shall miss 
you.” 

“ Will you, Catherine ?” 

“Yes, every evening we spend — every social hour. 
Your name will be a household word to us, mixed with 
our blessings and our tears.” 

“ Catherine !” 

“ It is true — all true ; and more than this, a thousand- 
fold, is true. Why, you have lately been such a good 
angel to me that I hardly know how — indeed, I can not — 
what a fool I am !” 

Catherine wiped away her tears, and then resumed 
Avith firmness, — 

“ Nevertheless, you must go.” 

“ I will go, Catherine.” 

“God bless you! and help you through every diffi- 
culty, and give you peace — ^his own peace, which the 
world can neither give nor take away.” 

Cleveland turned away Avithout saying good-night, 
and did not return that evening. Frank, too, was late ; 
and when at last he entered the house, he walked directly 
up to his xAvife, and clasped her in his arms, unable to ut- 
ter a single word. 

“What is it?” asked Catherine. “Has any thing 
happened ?” 

Her husband looked steadily and long into her face. 


92 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


He seemed to be reading her very soul for the first time. 
There was no sorrow in his countenance, though it was 
very grave, but a deep earnestness which Catherine could 
not understand. At last he said — 

“ Cleveland has been talking to me for three hours. I 
know all now.” 

“ Oh yes, about his going to Australia — ^poor fellow !” 

‘‘ No, not that, though he has told me that too.” 

“What then? What has happened? Do tell me, 
Frank. You almost frighten me, and yet you do not look 
distressed.” 

“My own Katey! my precious wife!” said Frank. 
But his utterance was choked. He was not ashamed of 
his tears. It was right that he should weep, and he felt 
it so. 

“ Cleveland,” he said at length, “ has been telling me 
all about you, Katey.” 

“ About me ! What could he find to tell about me ?” 

“Shame on that husband who lets another man tell 
him more than he knows about his own wife! Yet so 
it is with me.” 

“I can not understand you, Frank. Do speak more 
plainly. Your words sound shocking, but your looks 
are comforting and kind.” 

“Ah! you know it all too well, my Katey. Deep 
down in that true, faithful heart of yours, what have you 
not been suffering !” 

“ Suffering, Frank ? I have been so happy.” 

“Yes, all good people are happy; but some of them 
are martyrs not the less.” 

“ Hush, Frank ! how can you talk to me of being a 
martyr now ? All that is past and gone. You are only 
mocking me, I see, after all ; and I thought you were so 
serious.” 

“ Believe me, Kate, I never was more serious in my 


SELF-DEVOTION. 


93 


life. I have cause to he serious ; for what a wretch I 
have been ! Cleveland has told me all. poor fellow ! He 
said he wanted to make a clean breast before he left us 
forever. He has shown me exactly how the case has 
been standing between you and us — we enjoying our- 
selves wholly without regard to you — eating and drink- 
ing, and entertaining company ; while you toiled on from 
day to day with only one servant. We smoking in your 
pretty drawing-room, and spoiling all your wifish pride ; 
waking the sick child ; doing every thing that was selfish, 
gross, and mean ; and you bearing all with that pleased 
and happy look which kept me from finding out what a 
vile brute I was. But I know all now. I see it only too 
plainly. You never can deceive me again.” 

“ I will never try, Frank. It is right that we should 
see our mutual interest with the same eyes, and work 
for it with the same good will. No family can be truly 
happy where this is not the case. The only blessing I 
have craved, in addition to all my others, has been that 
you should see as I do about managing our household so 
as to be truly honorable and just. I have nothing left to 
wish for now.” 

‘‘ It puzzles me, Kate, what you would have done, had 
Cleveland not befriended you in this way.” 

‘‘ I would have gone on as I had been doing before.” 

«How?” 

“ I would have worked and prayed. And, Frank — 
dear Frank — I do believe there is no difficulty so compli- 
cated, no path so rough, no day so dark, but that, if we 
go on quietly working and praying, something will occur 
to give us light, and set us free.” 

“ It is a blessed trust.” 

“ It is a very simple one.” 

“ Where did you learn it 

“ I can not tell exactly. It came, I think, with sorrow. 


94 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


and with penitence and shame, that I had boasted of 
what it was simply my duty to do, and so made you hate 
the mention of what I did. And thus, you know, there 
came between us a little cloud. I scarcely know how. 
But it is gone now. Perhaps, too, that long night, when 
the child was so ill, brought many things to my mind 
which I had not understood before, and made me see 
some things very little which I had fancied great before ; 
and some — oh ! so great and good, which I had esteemed 
too lightly.” 

And so it was in this her simple way that Catherine 
laid bare her heart before her husband ; and both were 
happy in the clear and perfect understanding brought 
about between them — rationally and truly happy. There 
was, however, hanging over both the shadow of a heavy 
trial, which they could scarcely venture to anticipate in 
all its painful reality. 

It was the parting with Cleveland. Yet both believed 
it was for his good — for the best in every way. He had, 
indeed, of late become so changed to Catherine — she had 
learned to see him wdth such different eyes, that while 
she playfully called him the uncle of her child, she felt 
that to her he was almost more than a brother. She did 
not know, she would not have believed, had she been 
told, how much her own kind womanly feelings, her 
simple and unpretending performance of daily duty, and 
her own improved character under the discipline of cir- 
cumstances, had to do with developing the best elements 
of his. So true it is that all real goodness is diffusive in 
itself, and tends to bring out goodness in others. 

Dreading the protracted suffering of a long prepara- 
tion, Cleveland soon made ready for his departure, after 
he had once decided upon this important step. His fare- 
well to the inmates of the villa was hastened over, in 
order that there might be no melting of his heart, no 


SELF-DEVOTIO^f. 


95 


turning back from his purpose. It was, in reality, a 
solemn and affecting interview to the three friends ; but, 
like many such, was filled up very much with little ques- 
tions about personal matters, and charges to be remem- 
bered, and promises to write, and at last with the linger- 
ing hold of familiar hands, that might never feel each 
other’s cordial grasp again. 

Catherine had already sent a box to the vessel, not to 
be opened until the lonely passenger should be on board. 
When first told of this, he did not care what it contained. 
The friends themselves were all to him, not what their 
kindness might suggest for his comfort. But when, a 
thousand miles from his native shore, he examined his 
treasure — for it was a treasure then — he could scarcely 
see what it contained for gathering tears. He knew 
what kind hand had worked for him by night and day, 
and he blessed the womanly consideration Avhich had 
left so little unprovided which a poor alien brother might 
require in that unknown land where he was to XGorh, 
Yes, to work, and pray. He knew who he would work 
for then. The good mother’s jesting words about the 
fortune for her child sunk deep into his heart ; for how 
much did he not owe to these beloved friends ? 

We will not look so far into the future as to say that 
a fortune was actually bequeathed to Catherine’s oldest 
ky an uncle who had lived long abroad. We will 
not tell even of a wealthy stranger just past the meridian 
of life, somewhat travel-worn, and his hair slightly tinged 
with gray, who came and stood again beside Frank Os- 
bourne’s hearth, as if it had once been a familiar place. 
Suffice it for our present purpose, that year by year some 
liberal present came by the Australian ships, with fre- 
quent letters telling of a strange cheerfulness, resulting, 
the writer thought, from constant and successful work. 

“ Yes, and from prayer as well as work,” said Cath- 


96 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


erine, as she folded up one of Cleveland’s letters. These 
she always read carefully through before opening the 
box of treasures, which came in time to be clamored for 
by many little voices besides that of Uncle Cleveland’s 
hopeful boy. 


FOREST FARM. 


CHAPTER 1. 

At the close of a dull day in November, Mary Ashton 
looked from the door of her house into the gathering 
darkness, and stretched her hand out to feel if the rain, 
which had threatened all day, had begun to fall. Noth- 
ing could look more dreary, or sound less like comfort, 
than the few objects she could distinguish, and the drip- 
ping of the mist, which had not yet exactly thickened into 
rain. All within the room which Mary occupied was, 
however, the very opposite of dreariness. Here with a 
brightly-blazing fire, and tea already made, she sat down 
again to await the return of her husband from market. 
He was expected every moment, and while she added a 
little more water to the brewing tea from a bright ket- 
tle that sung merrily beside the fire, she listened, with 
her quick ear turned toward the window, for the well- 
known sound of his horse upon the graveled road which 
led past the end of the house toward the stables. 

It came at last, and Mary threw aside her sewing in 
order to give undivided attention to the hot buttered 
cakes, and other more savory viands with which she al- 
ways took care that her table should be supplied. Wil- 
liam Ashton was a good while coming in. Mary heard 
him order a warm mash for his mare ; and then she fan- 
cied that he struck the dog — a sure sign that things had 
not gone well with him in the market ; but she said 
nothing, and did not even rush out to hear the news. 
William, like most men, preferred to tell his news spon- 
E 


98 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


taneously, not to have it wrung out of him. So Mary, 
by her manner, might have cared nothing at all about 
the market, which had that day been a sort of cattle fair 
as well ; and there had been a young colt of considera- 
ble promise, of her husband’s, to sell, with some other 
matters of moment to be adjusted, all far from being in- 
different to Mary in the present state of their affairs. 
But still she said nothing, except about the weather, 
which she felt sure must be very cold, the fire burned so 
clearly. And this furnished an excuse for stirring it 
afresh, until all the room glowed with a sort of radiance, 
enough to cheer the heart of any man not altogether 
down in the world, and despairing of ever being up again. 
And Mary herself was as good or better than her fire. 
A brighter face never welcomed a husband home ; a neat- 
er and more compact person never bustled about when 
there was business to be done, or slipped quietly into 
the right place, and sat still when there was none. 

William Ashton was, indeed, very sad at heart on this 
jN"ovember night. Every thing had gone wrong with 
him at the fair. Wheat had fallen in price, and he had 
a quantity that must be disposed of preparatory to the 
half yearly rent-day. The colt, as if possessed with the 
demon of contradiction, never held up its head, nor 
showed off its capital breeding while the judges were 
looking on, and was sold at last for little more than half 
the sum which William had calculated upon. For why? 
Simply because he wanted money, and could not well 
afford to keep it until the spring, when it might have 
fetched some twenty or even thirty pounds more. But, 
as he said, every thing went against a man short of cap- 
ital ; so that it had become one of his frequent com- 
plaints, that a man with scanty means could not afford 
to make money. 

No man is insensible to a genial fire on a cold night in 


FOREST FARM. 


99 


November, or to the comfort of such a meal, half tea and 
half supper, as Mary had the art of setting out. So by 
degrees William’s discontent began to melt away, and 
then he opened out, and told his wife of every thing hav- 
ing gone just as much against him as was possible dur- 
ing that day’s transactions. And Mary listened with a 
swelling heart, for she knew only too Tvell the difficulties 
of their position, and how the difference of a few hund- 
reds of pounds on the wrong side would send them 
fairly off the farm, she could not imagine to what place 
next. She was naturally a great looker on into the fu- 
ture, and no woman liked better to see the way clear in 
advance than she did ; but this question had puzzled 
Mary a good deal of late — what they should do if com- 
pelled to leave the farm. 

There is no describing the face and person of Mary 
Ashton, without using one of the most familiar and fa- 
vorite words in that part of England where she lived, 
though a word but little used, and never appreciated, in 
the South — the more the pity. Bonny — yes, that was 
exactly what Mary looked, and was ; and now her bonny 
face, though very earnest in its expression of attention 
to what her husband was saying, betrayed neither alarm 
nor discontent, but kept its bright look as fresh as ever, 
just as if there w^as hope yet — floods — oceans of hope 
for the future, to be drawn upon at will under every 
emergency. And so, in fact, there ■was for Mary, because 
she was a good woman, and had the strongest possible 
faith that her Father in heaven would neither forsake 
her nor hers, unless they should first forsake him. 

But, besides this deep and abiding faith, Mary was 
happy in the possession of a naturally cheerful and buoy- 
ant spirit — one that found amusement, and often conso- 
lation too, in all the little innocent and familiar pleasures 
of the moment, such as she contrived to surround her- 


100 


CHAPTEKS ON WIVES. 


self with so abundantly as scarcely ever to appear the 
careful and economical housekeeper which she really was. 
Mary had, for her part, cares enough — quite enough to 
have made some women put on a very doleful face. She 
had two extremely little children, and a third in not very 
distant prospect ; but nobody ever heard her complain 
of these as troubles. She called them all blessings, and 
sang and laughed with her babies, and ran about the 
house with them as if they were only playthings in her 
arms, but comforts — real, solid comforts — deep down in 
her heart. And dearly indeed did Mary love the fun 
and frolic of these children, which she fancied were more 
entertaining than other people’s. And if having a cheer- 
ful, merry-hearted mother could make them so, there 
was every reason to suppose that Mary’s estimate of her 
children was a correct one. 

Indeed, she was very much like a spring bird in the 
house, that bonny little wife and mother, all through the 
deep winter, when the snow lay thick on the ground, 
and William was a little short in his rent, and turnips 
were diseased, and sheep did badly, and all things look- 
ed dismal and dark to William’s eye, except — and that 
was a pretty considerable exception — the cheery little 
wife who made his home look like a perfect paradise of 
comfort all the while, and never once complained even 
of being weary, unless it was sometimes at the close of 
a very busy day, when she would exclaim, “What a grand 
invention sleep was, to come just when it was wanted, 
and set all right again for another day’s work !” 

William Ashton was a fine, tall, handsome young man, 
just of that grade in society in which, with a little spare 
money, a man may assume the gentleman, and nobody 
will dispute his right to that title. But let him fall only 
one degree lower, and he is nobody, or less than no- 
body ; because he wants the dignity, and independence, 


FOREST FARM. 


101 


and perhaps the bodily strength of a common laborer. 
When he first married, William had kept his hunter, 
and had wine on his table every day. He had taken his 
wife from a highly respectable home, though without 
much fortune ; and he had a generous kind of pride in 
seeing her surrounded by all the comforts, and even the 
luxuries to which she had been accustomed in her fa- 
ther’s house. This was at a period of England’s history 
when farmers in prosperous agricultural districts were 
really gentlemen, often cultivating, even as tenants, more 
than a thousand acres, and employing for such purposes 
a large amount of capital, which it was no uncommon 
thing for the farmer of those times to be able to com- 
mand. If the master of such means, with his plentiful 
table and fine stud of horses, maintained the rank of a 
gentleman at public or private dinners, his family were 
generally equally solicitous to keep up the same preten- 
sions in their general habits ; and when to these were 
added a good education, with refined or literary tastes, 
a happier kind of life than that of the well-to-do farmer 
could scarcely be met with through the whole range of 
human society. 

We will not pretend that either William or Mary Ash- 
ton could have ranked with the most intelligent of this 
class. We are not quite sure that they spoke French, 
or sang Italian, or were very deeply read in polite lit- 
erature. Hay, we half suspect that a little Yorkshire 
dialect mingled with their familiar expressions. But, on 
the other hand, they were very far removed in habits of 
life and general conversation from that class of towns- 
people who have to do with trade in a small way ; and, 
as already said, they lived at a time when farmers were 
people of considerable standing, both in the opinion of 
the world and in their own. 

The aspect of the world’s affairs in these respects was. 


102 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


however, chaDging a little about the time of William’s 
marriage, and he had but a small capital to begin with ; 
for his father, though fond of money, had never been a 
money-making man. He began life, too, upon a poor 
farm, that could never, under any circumstances, have 
repaid him for any great outlay; and from keeping his 
hunter for himself, and a pony and chaise for Mary’s use, 
William had been obliged to give up first one thing, and 
then another, until he found himself scarcely looked upon 
by the very gentlemen who used, at one time, to be hand 
in glove wdth him in the field. Against the pony chaise 
Mary herself had very soon protested. She declared she 
had no time for driving about, though she had been 
celebrated as the best 'whip in the neighborhood. Her 
skill in riding, too, was so perfect, that to part with the 
pony perhaps did cost her a sigh ; but pony and chaise 
were at length both sold ; and, as the latter was a thing 
then little used in that part of the country, it went for 
scarcely half its original cost, and the pony for a mere 
nothing. Mary could not let it go without the certainty 
of a good home; and, as it was old, the purchaser said 
she could not expect much for it. Thus, even in their 
prudential givings up, they were losers to a considerable 
extent, still proving the truth of William’s words, “That 
people who are short of money can not afibrd to get 
rich.” 

Before the winter, w’hich commenced so inauspicious- 
ly, was over, William brought home from market one 
day a letter which had caused him considerable agitation 
of mind, but which, notwithstanding some faint touch of 
pleasure mingling with this excitement, he hesitated a 
good while before showing to his wife. 

Mary was quick to decipher any expression of her 
husband’s face, and she was sure, on this occasion, that 
he had heard something, or seen somebody, or that some 


FOREST FARM. 


103 


event had occurred out of the common way. Putting 
a strong restraint upon herself (for she was naturally 
quick, and, with all her good qualities, not the most pa- 
tient woman in the world), Mary worked off her won- 
dering excitement by making herself unusually busy 
about the children getting off to bed, and then about the 
tea, and all sorts of things, until at last, after her hus- 
band had swallowed more tea than usual, he looked up 
suddenly and said, 

“ Mary, how should you like to go and live at Forest 
Farm ?” 

“ What !” exclaimed Mary, “ is your father going to 
leave ?” 

“ Leave ! ^N'o. What made you think of that 

“ Why, how else should we go to live there ?” 

“That is just the question I have to answer. The 
house, you know, is large — ^twice as large as they want 
— and — 

“ Oh, never, William, never ! A mud cottage, if you 
like, with you — an Irish cabin — any thing by ourselves. 
But to live with another family, impossible!” 

“Well, Mary, don’t be so hasty; I only asked you a 
question.” 

“ And I have answered it.” 

“Very well. That’s enough. Only, I suppose, you 
can’t exactly tell me what else we can do.” 

William said this with a most unmistakable tone of 
anger, and Mary began to feel sorry that she had sj)oken 
out so strongly without hearing more. But among her 
faults — and she was by no means perfect — this was, per- 
haps, her greatest — that she felt so strongly, she did 
sometimes speak out more warmly than she ought. And 
now she wanted to hear more, and she had, in a manner, 
closed the door upon her husband’s confidence. What 
could she do ? She went up to him, threw her arms 


104 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


round his neck, and, with many kisses, told him she was 
sorry she had spoken so hastily, and that if he was really 
serious in what he had proposed, she would sit down and 
listen to all he had to say, without setting herself against 
any thing unless it was wrong. 

William knew his wife too well to doubt her promise. 
He had tried her often, and always after being a little 
wrong, and confessing it, found her as right as any 
woman could be ; so he told her to sit down, and then 
he took a letter from his pocket, and read it to her from 
beginning to end, while she listened without another 
word. 

This letter was from William’s father, who lived at 
Forest Farm — indeed, owned it, for it had been left to 
him by a brother some five or six years before, very 
much to the surprise of every body, because the brother 
had two sons of his own — the elder, to be sure, a kind of 
scapegrace, but the younger a prudent — an exceedingly 
prudent lawyer, settled in a neighboring town. What 
could possess old Mr. Ashton to bequeath this property 
to his brother nobody could imagine, unless it was that 
he was really superannuated, as some people said, and 
did not know what he was about. But so it was ; and 
the present Mr. Ashton, William’s father, entered upon 
the farm immediately after his brother’s death, and had 
managed, or endeavored to manage, it ever since. 

Forest Farm was no very lucrative possession, after 
all. It was situated near some extensive woods and 
preserves, belonging to a sporting nobleman ; was over- 
run with game ; and being poor land, and long neglected, 
was likely to cost quite enough to cultivate it, even in the 
most sparing manner, without any rent to pay. Besides 
this, the dwelling-house upon it was a large, old-fashion- 
ed, rambling sort of place, in a very dilapidated condition, 
which could not be kept secure against wind and weath- 


FOREST FARM. 


105 


er without considerable outlay, to say nothing of the 
destitution of comfort which such a habitation must ex- 
hibit when utterly fallen into neglect. 

It was a great thing to talk about, and to think about, 
however, to be the possessor of Forest Farm ; and most 
of the family, not excepting William, shared the satis- 
faction which this bequest afforded — William, perhaps, 
more than the others ; for, being the oldest son, it was 
only reasonable to suppose that he would one day in- 
herit the property himself, and then, of course, he would 
do great things, and make quite a different place of it 
altogether. 

Mary had never from the first liked the idea of this 
farm, so that William had learned to refrain from all di- 
rect mention of it in his plans for the future. She even 
went so far as to declare it to be her opinion that the 
family had no right to it, and that William could never 
enter upon it with a clear conscience while his two cous- 
ins were living. Mary knew very little about law, but 
she had strong feelings on the subject of equity ; and she 
said, again and again, that in spite of her uncle’s will, 
there could be no equity in William’s accepting the own- 
ership of this property after his father’s death. So, after 
a few warm discussions on the subject, it had been drop- 
ped altogether between the husband and wife ; and, as 
the father was at that time a hale and hearty man, there 
would clearly have been little wisdom in building any 
definite plan upon what might take place after his death. 

From some cause or other, however, Mr. Ashton never 
seemed to be exactly the same man after he had entered 
upon this farm. His wife said it was the windy old 
house, and the damp situation on the skirts of the wood. 
But, whatever it might be, one thing was certain — that 
old age, with all its attendant feebleness and irresolution, 
came apace upon the proprietor of Forest Farm. His 
E2 


106 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


figure became cramped with rheumatism ; his means 
were evidently cramped, nobody knew how or why ; 
and his faculties appeared also cramped, for he never 
knew his own mind about any plan of management to 
be pursued, but pottered and bungled, until he seemed 
poorer, instead of richer, than he had ever been in his life 
before. 

The letter he had written to his son was a formal and 
lengthy proposal that he should go and live with his 
parents in the large house, and take the management of 
the whole concern, in order that the old man might, as 
he expressed it, feel at liberty to be fairly laid aside ; for, 
what with rheumatics, and his long-standing asthma, and 
increasing years, and the contrariness of the people about 
him, he felt himself entirely unequal to the duties of his 
position. The servants he trusted cheated him, he said ; 
the agents he employed made matters worse ; all things 
went against him, for even the seasons were not what 
they used to be. So he proposed to his son that he 
should bring his wife and family, and live in that portion 
of the house which he and his old woman never occu- 
pied ; and he would agree either to give William a cer- 
tain percentage upon the profits of the farm, or in some 
other way would endeavor to meet his requirements, as 
might be settled between themselves. 

All the time her husband was reading this letter, 
Mary felt painfully conscious of the reawakening of cer- 
tain feelings which she had been struggling throughout 
the whole of her married life to keep down. To tell the 
truth, she had never much liked William’s family, his fa- 
ther and mother least of all. The old man had no re- 
ligion, she did not think he had much integrity; and 
what small pretense the mother had to either went but 
a very little way with Mary, who was true and honest 
to her heart’s core. Here, then, Avas a situation for a 


FOREST FARM. 


107 


young wife to be placed in — to live with people so to- 
tally opposed to all that she most approved and valued, 
and to live with them, too, in a place incapable of com- 
fort ; never to be mistress in her own home ; and, worse 
than all, to see her husband continually subjected to in- 
fluences such as it had been the most earnest desire of 
her heart to avoid. 

To describe Mary honestly, it must be stated of her 
that she was a Methodist in her religious profession — a 
stanch, stirring, earnest Methodist. Her husband knew 
this when he married her. The name carried no stigma 
with it in that neighborhood, so many of the wealthy 
and respectable families there acknowledging the same. 
She was so reasonable a woman, too, that she never al- 
lowed her profession to be a cause of stumbling to her 
husband. Indeed, she went wdth him every Sunday 
morning to their parish church, and only joined her own 
people sometimes in the evening, and in their weekly 
services. But her heart was with them as a people. 
She had been brought up in their communion, and noth- 
ing could have induced her to resign the privilege of this 
familiar, and to her, most dear and sacred fellowship. 

For such a woman to live constantly with an irrelig- 
ious old man, to pay him the respect due to a father, and 
to be placed in close and constant intercourse with other 
members of a family all neglected and ill governed, 
might well appall a mind even less sensitive than Mary’s 
to all circumstances connected with domestic comfort, 
social respectability, and religious welfare. Indeed, so 
entirely overwhelming was the contemplation of this 
change altogether, that, taken as she was by surprise, 
Mary could scarcely even pray that night without saying, 
“ Any thing but this.” And if she was, on that occa- 
sion, longer on her knees than usual, it was because she 
had a stout heart to contend with, in absolute rebellion 


108 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


against that which seemed to have come upon her like a 
decree sent forth to desolate her life, and to make it mis- 
erable forevermore. 

But prayer was no weak exercise with Mary. It was 
rather a struggle for life or for death. She prayed like 
the Puritans of old, with the same unshaken confidence 
in the force of prayer to overcome, not what she did not 
like, but to overcome all within herself that might be in- 
imical to the Divine Will. In this spirit she knelt down ; 
and if she did not overcome at once, she rose up at last 
a dijQferent creature ; and, with a peculiar light upon her 
countenance, she went to the side of the bed where her 
husband was lying, and placing the candle on the table 
beside him, said softly, but firmly, — 

“William, I will go if you think it best that we 
should.” 


CHAPTER IL 

Eaely in the month of April the great change was 
made by William and Mary of removing, with their chil- 
dren and all their worldly goods, to Forest Farm. Mary 
had exerted herself in the business of preparation for 
this change a little beyond her strength, and she was al- 
together in circumstances that might have furnished an 
excuse for no inconsiderable amount of depression, if not 
of absolute distress. But when Mary had a duty to per- 
form, she did it heartily, not grudgingly. It was not her 
habit, as we sometimes see, to make a merit of resigna- 
tion, and so just cast herself upon the stream of events, 
as if to be passive was the highest Christian virtue. “ If 
it’s right, it is right,” Mary would say with peculiar em- 
phasis ; and that being the case, what could there be to 
hesitate or grumble about? Beyond this, however, 
though she made no parade of such matters, she had a 


FOEEST FAEM. 


109 


deeper feeling that what God appointed as a duty he 
would not fail to help her to perform ; and if she pro- 
fessed to be his servant, surely that service, above all 
others, should be a cheerful as well as a faithful service. 
Thus she never did even what she most disliked in itself 
by halves. She said that was the way to make all work 
disagreeable. On the contrary, she gave herself to it, 
head, heart, and hand ; and in the very act of working 
in this manner there is always a sort of cheerfulness, in- 
dependently of other circumstances. 

The first appearance of the house and premises at 
Forest Farm was any thing but inviting, after a cold, 
dreary journey with two young children. There was 
not, indeed, any thing like a welcome awaiting them, 
either without or within ; not from any absence of de- 
sire to receive them, but rather from absolute inability 
to get up a welcome with the least show of comfort in it 
for any body. And yet there was sufficient agency about 
the house. Mrs. Ashton had been in a terrible fidget all 
day, wandering from room to room, and wondering what 
could be done, instead of doing it. And there was her 
large handsome daughter, Bessy, capable of any amount 
of efibrt, if she would but make it. There was a stout 
and able servant too, though of a somewhat uncouth de- 
scription. Yet all seemed waiting and wondering, and 
not a thing had been made to look ready for the new- 
comers, with the exception of a fire being lighted in a 
large, almost vacant room, with an old table standing in 
the middle of it, but without a single chair to sit down 
upon. 

William was evidently very much disconcerted by the 
aspect of the home to which he had brought his wife. 
He was ashamed, too, that their own servant should see 
such a forlorn-looking pl^iCe, and be the witness of such 
a welcome. He did his best, however — and a powerful 


110 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


and willing arm can do much — to place his wife in more 
comfortable circumstances, by snatching up various arti- 
cles of furniture out of other parts of the house, and run- 
ning with them into the apartment into which Mary and 
the children had been shown. 

Had Mary been well enough to laugh, the spectacle 
of what William was doing would have afforded her no 
little entertainment ; but her ability to bear up was near- 
ly exhausted, one very cogent reason why the moving 
■was hurried through having been the near approach of 
an event which rendered some provision for comfort al- 
most indispensable. She might, in fact, have been ex- 
cused if, on looking around her, she had burst into tears. 
But no ; she would not do that for her husband’s sake. 
So, forcibly swallowing down the peculiar bitterness of 
her present lot, she gave her undivided attention to the 
children, who cried that disconsolate cry which tells too 
plainly to the mother’s ear that they are not where they 
want to be ; the eldest, who could speak, calling out in 
plain words, “ I want to go home. Do take me home.” 
A substantial meal was the best means of quieting this 
melancholy wail, which, by the help of her nurse, Mary 
was at length able to obtain. Then William talked of 
tea, and by a great deal of urging, and even scolding on 
his part, it was, in time, obtained. But oh, how different, 
when it did come, from the kind of meal which Mary was 
accustomed to make of tea in her own home ! 

William was rapidly becoming absolutely cross ; and 
Mary, struck with the miserable expression of his face, 
saw plainly it would never do for her to sink, let the as- 
pect of things be what it might. 

“ Our furniture will be here soon,” she said, “ and then 
we shall be all right.” 

“We can’t unpack it before the morning,” said Wil- 
liam, “ and how in the world we are to exist through the 
night, I declare I don’t know.” 


FOREST FARM. 


Ill 


“ Why, look here !” exclaimed Mary, throwing open 
the door of an adjoining room, in which there were 
two beds. “ If only the beds are not damp, we shall do 
grandly.’’ 

“ But the carpets ?” said William. 

“ Oh, never mind carpets !” replied Mary. “Here is 
a strip, you see. We can set the children down upon 
that. All I care about is whether these beds have been 
thoroughly aired.” 

This point was soon settled satisfactorily, for Mrs. 
Ashton was morbidly sensitive on the subject of damp; 
and the children, being more than reconciled by the in- 
dulgence of undressing at the fire, were got to bed in 
high good -humor; and then William and Mary sat 
down themselves, to talk a while over their own mat- 
ters. The fire burned brightly up a wide, old-fashioned 
chimney ; and William, congratulating himself upon the 
comfort of having plenty of fuel, threw on another log, 
and then, with his elbows on his knees, leaned forward 
and listened to the crackling of the wood — a sound which 
has soothed many a disturbed spirit besides his. 

The night came on wet and dreary, and it w^as late be- 
fore the wagons with the furniture arrived — so late that 
nothing could be taken out before morning. There was 
a long time for the husband and wife to talk and cogi- 
tate upon their situation, and Mary employed the slowly- 
passing moments in asking William about his family. 
Bessy Ashton, his sister, had struck her very much, as 
she did most people, by her fine commanding figure and 
really handsome countenance. She was a young w^oman 
of two or three-and-twenty, tall and erect in person, w'hen 
she chose to hold herself up ; and with something so de- 
cided, as well as powerful, in her form and carriage, 
that, failing in the queenly aspect which she ought to 
have borne, she was in imminent danger of looking vul- 


112 


CHAPTERS ON' WIVES. 


gar ; nor is it quite certain that Bessy did not sometimes 
deserve the appellation of blowzy. 

Mary had seen her before, but she fancied it must have 
been under more favorable circumstances; for she was 
half frightened to look at her now, there was such an ex- 
pression of defiant self-will in her countenance, while her 
very movements all contributed to indicate a sort of 
care-for-nobody spirit, which was any thing but engag- 
ing to a sister-in-law come to dwell beneath the same 
roof with her. 

“ Poor Bess !” said William as he gazed into the fire. 

“ Why poor asked Mary. “ She seems, I should 
say, very well able to defend herself, and to maintain her 
own rights.” 

“ There are rights that some people consider wrongs,” 
observed William rather mysteriously. 

“ Has any trouble come upon her ?” asked Mary. 

“ The old story,” replied William ; “ that cousin of 
ours — he that always brought trouble, and always will.” 

“ Tom Ashton, do you mean ?” 

“Yes, he who should have been master and owner 
here, if he had only known how to conduct himself.” 

“ But what has that to do with Bessy ?” 

“ Only this — that since they were children they have 
always held together, and now it’s worse than that.” 

“ How do you mean worse ?” 

“ Why, womanlike, no sooner did Bessy find that he 
was done out here — that, in fact, his own conduct had 
set every body against him — that he hadn’t a single 
friend left in the ’whole world, than she must fall over 
head and ears in love with him, and take his part through 
thick and thin, and even declare that she means to mar- 
ry him.” 

“ Poor Bessy, indeed ! But she must have a great 
spirit to do that — a great spirit, or else great love.” 


FOREST FARM. 


113 


“ Bess has both. Thorough in every thing, she never 
loves by halves.” 

“And yet it was only a half-welcome she gave us 
when we came.” 

“Half! It was no welcome at all. She didn’t mean 
it for one. I could have taken her by the shoulders, and 
turned her out at the door. Shame on her for an inso- 
lent hussy !” 

“ Hush, William ! I rather like her that she made no 
pretense to what she did not feel. Perhaps she will like 
me better after a while.” 

“ Why, yes, I should hope so. And after all, I do be- 
lieve the girl has some heart in her, if you could only get 
at it. She’s a fine creature, isn’t she ?” 

“You have hit the right expression. She is a fine 
creature, or rather she might be. What a figure ! what 
a head ! I long to do her up a little bit — -just to make 
her hair tidy.” 

“You should see her when she does herself up. My 
word ! she’s like a queen — she used to be, however ; but 
I think this trouble has changed her altogether.” 

“ Does Tom Ashton ever come here ?” 

“Not openly — at least, very seldom; but I think she 
sees him sometimes — perhaps often.” 

“ Where is he, and what does he do ?” 

“Nobody knows what he does, except drink, and idle 
about in bad company. We fancy, but we don’t know, 
that his brother Peter makes him a small allowance. 
Peter won’t give more than he thinks himself forced 
to ; but, for decency’s sake, he may, perhaps, do some- 
thing.” 

“ What was Tom brought up to ?” 

“ Farming, in one sense ; but he learned with a land 
surveyor, and sometimes even now he may get a job in 
that way. Did you ever see him ?” 


114 


CHAPTEKS ON WIVES. 


“ No, never. I have seen Peter, but Tom I never saw 
to my knowledge.” 

“ He’s a splendid fellow to look at. Pity he and Peter 
can not change heads and faces.” 

“ What is he like ? Does he not look rather low ?” 

“Not a bit when he has a good coat on his back; nor 
speak in a Ioav way either. Indeed, he might sit at the 
table of a lord, for that matter.” 

“ Is he like Peter at all ?” 

“The very opposite. Tom is dark, with jet black 
hair, and such eyes! You would not wonder at any girl 
liking him if you could see him and hear him talk. And 
then he has a sort of kind way with him, especially to 
women, and can be as gentle as a woman himself when 
he likes.” 

“What made him get wrong in the first instance?” 

“ I blame Peter, and many people do the same. I hate 
that fellow, Peter.” 

“ For shame, William ! What do you hate him for ?” 

“ For continually scheming and framing excuses, and 
making people believe they haven’t their own heads on 
their shoulders, and yet always working for himself in 
some way. That unfortunate Tom was just the other 
way, and never would conceal any thing, nor make the 
best of his own case either ; for, when his father sus- 
pected him wrongly, he let him suspect, and wouldn’t 
stoop to clear himself. So Peter, with his cool head and 
smooth tongue, took advantage of this, and set the old 
man against him, and at last got him almost turned out 
of house and home.” 

“ What was that for ?” 

“ Why, to get himself in, to be sure. Peter was the 
youngest, you see ; and by rights the property ought to 
have gone to Tom, the oldest son.” 

“And yet it did not go to either of them, but to your 
father. IIow could that come about ?” 


FOREST FARM. 


115 


“ Nay, there are wiser folks than me can’t answer that 
question. But so it was ; and law is law.” 

“ Yes ; but is law always justice ?” 

“ In one sense it is. However, we can not any of us 
set law aside, whether just or unjust.” 

“ But this poor Bessy ! I can’t help thinking about 
her. What is to be the end of all this, I wonder ?” 

“ And I wonder too. Tom talks of going off to Amer- 
ica.” 

“ And would Bessy go with him ?” 

“ She can’t go : she would never be so mad. Why, 
they haven’t ten pounds between them !” 

“ They have youth and strength. They might work.” 

“ Tom is no worker. The worst of him is, he is con- 
tent to hang about, as all such fellows do, that take to 
drinking. He has lost his self-respect, and his resolution 
too, I think ; so that w^hen he talks of doing any thing, 
he never gets it done. This, I fancy, vexes Bessy more 
than all besides ; they would have been off long since, if 
he had been resolute like her.” 

“ Can’t she persuade him to keep sober for her sake?” 

“ It seems not ; besides which, he had always that 
fault — shillyshallying. His father had it, and never did 
any good. Every body, you know, has some one leading 
fault, which fathers and mothers ought to see to in their 
children. This was Tom’s, and I’ll answer for it, nothing 
was ever done for him in that way. When he was a 
boy we used to be friends, and then he used to fire up 
quick as gunpowder ; but after a blaze it 'was all over, 
gone out and spent, and he was good for very little to go 
on with.” 

“ That’s a bad fault indeed ! I know of none worse 
for a man. Poor Bessy ! I do pity her if that is the case 
with the man she loves.” 

“ That’s his case, most certainly ; and when j^ou add 


116 


CHAPTERS OJT WIVES. 


loose, intemperate habits to that, and false friends who 
persuade him this way and the other, one saying he 
wouldn’t do a thing if he was in his place, and another 
he would, why, it seems to me there’s no help for such a 
man.” 

“ It does, indeed, look very much like a case without 
help. But I won’t believe it is quite without hope yet. 
You know, William, there is always hope while there is 
a good God in heaven, and a blessed Savior to trust to.” 

“ But what if we defy that God, break his laws, think 
nothing of His blessed Son, and set our faces quite the 
opposite Avay ?” 

“ Then, indeed, if we continue so, we must be lost. But 
they are so young, so inexperienced. I can not help 
thinking one of them, at least, might be brought into a 
better way.” 

“ Which is that one ?” 

“ Your sister Bessy.” 

“Try her— just try her. Let some of your preachers 
come and try to convert her. I wouldn’t answer for 
their lives. Ah, you don’t know Bessy !” 

“Well,” thought Mary, as she prepared to retire for 
the night, “ I have come among strange people, as well 
as into a strange place. I must take care not to vex 
them, at any rate.” 

And so, with many other patient thoughts, and with 
feelings much subdued by her present circumstances, 
Mary fell asleep at last, to awake in the morning with 
that wondering sense of strangeness, which, in this in- 
stance, was scarcely rendered more agreeable by being 
resolved into certainty as to where she really was. It 
was a sad awaking, for though the birds in the neighbor- 
ing wood were making a pretense to sing, every near 
object looked so dreary, comfortless, and unlike home, 
that Mary would have closed her eyes again, if only to 


FOREST FARM. 


117 


shut out that ugly view ; but that her children also were 
beginning to stir, and a little prattle in the neighboring 
bed was telling how unconscious they were of not being 
in their own familiar home. The older child, a boy, was 
telling his little sister where he would take her . to that 
day, among rabbits, and Guinea-pigs, and hens, and pig- 
eons, never, alas ! to be disturbed by their little pattering 
feet again. 

The day to which the little party of new-comers woke 
proved to be one of almost unmitigated confusion and 
discomfort. There was the unpacking of all the furni- 
ture to be got through, with endless calculations about 
where to place it. There was the offered help of those 
whose services were worse than useless. There was 
continual misapprehension of the wishes of the family, 
who would not say promptly and distinctly what their 
wishes were ; so that Mary, who was in the habit of plan- 
ning far in advance, and thus going straight on with any 
business which she had in hand, felt so hindered and em- 
barrassed in all her proceedings, that she was more than 
once on the point of sitting down to have a thorough 
good cry. 

In this way, arrested by continual uncertainty and 
confusion, half Mary’s precious time was wasted. And 
it was precious to her, for she knew very well what was 
about to happen, and how important it was that she 
should make the most of the present opportunity for put- 
ting all things in their right places while she could. To- 
ward evening, however, all was over with her strength 
and capability. She was obliged to retire from the scene 
of action, leaving her husband to do the best he could ; 
and when another morning dawned, and the light again 
streamed in at the large uncurtained window of her bed- 
room, which was still far from being in a condition of 
order, behold! there was a tiny little babe lying beside 


118 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


its mother in the bed, while a strange nurse was seated 
at the fire. The countenance of this nurse Mary herself 
was busily contemplating, though without being able to 
form any definite opinion as to the character of the being 
in whose society she was now destined to spend a large 
portion of the following month. 

This nurse was one whom old Mrs. Ashton had previ- 
ously engaged. She had once been a servant in the 
family at Forest Farm, had lived in that very house dur- 
ing many years of the older Mr. Ashton’s life, had attend- 
ed upon him in his long illness, and knew perhaps more 
of the family afiairs of both houses than any other human 
being. If, therefore, this nurse should jirove at all a 
companionable women, she might be of great use to 
Mary in giving her a clearer insight into her real situa- 
tion than could be obtained from any individual connect- 
ed by the closer ties of relationship. And Mary felt the 
more need of some assistance from this quarter, because 
she saw already but too plamly that scarcely was there 
one member of the household, unless it might be her 
husband, whose evidence could be relied upon as impar- 
tial, because none were entirely unprejudiced. 

Mary would have been the last woman to endeavor to 
elicit the secrets of her husband’s family from a subor- 
dinate, or, indeed, from any one ; but it must not be im- 
agined that even Mary, with all her innate and all her 
cultivated sense of propriety, -was so far removed in posi- 
tion from that of a respectable nurse, as to be above con- 
versing with her in a manner by no means unlikely to 
draw forth the information most important for her own 
right guidance for the future. So Mary chatted with 
her nurse as soon as she was strong enough to do so, 
much after the manner of other women similarly cir- 
cumstanced; and it was quite natural that their con- 
versation should not unfrequently turn upon th© old 


FOREST FARM. 


119 


house, and the old family in which the woman had lived 
so long. 

Almost all nurses have some favorite mistress or lady 
patroness — some model mother — some pattern wife — 
some heroine to them, whose character embodies in re- 
membrance all which they are capable of appreciating as 
excellent or admirable. The wife of the elder Mr. Ash- 
ton was all this to nurse Mason. She was the mistress 
into whose service she had first entered when a girl; 
and though she died early, while her two sons were only 
boys, Mrs. Mason described her influence in the house as 
something never to be forgotten nor eflaced. The nurse 
was no reasoner, or she would have seen that in the after 
course of both these boys the mother’s influence told for 
nothing, or worse than nothing. But the woman would 
not see that. Of Peter she seldom spoke, but by the 
other poor unfortunate she held almost as faithfully as 
Bessy herself, persisting in it that he inherited his moth- 
er’s disposition, and that it was in consequence of his 
acute sense of the unsupportable loss he had sustained 
by her death that he had given himself to evil ways. 

With such convictions deeply impressed upon her own 
mind, Mrs. Mason had no difficulty in creating a true and 
tender interest in the mind of her hearer, on behalf of 
those whose early lives, w^hose affectionate intercourse, 
whose joyful meetings, whose tearful partings, whose 
misfortunes and successes, the nurse described with all 
that familiar detail which is peculiar to the recollections 
of persons of this class. And Mary listened with her 
warmest feelings alive to what had gone before in the 
experience of the dwellers beneath that roof. She list- 
ened until the old house, with its low rafters and bare 
walls, its mullioned windows and ancient oak stairs, be- 
gan to wear a different aspect in her estimation ; more 
especially when she learned that the pattern lady — for 


120 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


the nurse always called her a lady — who had once been 
the mistress of that mansion, was a religious woman, as 
well as a good wife and mother, and had actually been 
brought up among those who were familiar with the 
preaching of Wesley and Whitefield. 

“ That poor young man, then,” she said to the nurse 
one day, “ must have been the child of many prayers.” 

“ He was indeed,” said Mrs. Mason. “ If prayer could 
save him, he will never be lost, even yet.” 

“ He never will,” said Mary, with a strange confidence 
in her tone ; and when the nurse looked at her, there was 
something written on her countenance which reminded 
her of that beloved mistress whose praises were ever on 
her lips. It was the evidence of a strong faith written 
there, in characters which the woman had no skill to 
read, though she bowed before it with a reverence which 
nothing altogether human could have inspired. 

CHAPTER III. 

Had Mary set about in the most studious manner to 
please the family with whom she was now an inmate, 
she would scarcely have been more successful than she 
was in merely following the bent of her own natural dis- 
position, which always led her to take a lively and untir- 
ing interest in the details, however small, of what was 
immediately around her. Little think some of those ab- 
stracted, meditative people, who ponder and speculate 
upon things far off, and spin fine theories out of that 
which exists only in idea, what a charm there is in this 
tendency to get immediate good out of present things 
by habitually making the most of the “ five gateways of 
knowledge.” 

Mary was particularly quick in her perceptions ; but 
that was not all. She had a warm place in her heart for 


FOREST FARM. 


121 


what those perceptions gathered up and brought in ; so 
that with her a certain amount of feeling almost always 
accompanied the act of perceiving, either of joy or sor- 
row, such as came through the channels of a quick sym- 
pathy, extending down to the minutest enjoyments or 
sufferings, even of the animal creation. To a character 
like Mary’s belongs an intense love of flowers ; of pretty 
garniture ; of order and symmetry ; of fine animals, and 
especially of their young, such as little downy ducks and 
chickens, puppies, kittens, lambs, or any thing that can be 
petted and fondled, and made happier by human kind- 
ness. 

To such women a farm-house, with its outdoor appur- 
tenances full of teeming life, is a perfect elysium of en- 
joyment ; and no sooner was Mary well enough to take 
any part in attending to such matters, than she might be 
seen sometimes feeding the poultry, at others rambling 
with her children among the sheep and lambs. Nay, 
even the stables were not unvisited by her; nor was 
there a cow upon the farm whose good or bad points 
she did not take note of and discuss. All this pleased 
old Mr. Ashton exceedingly. His wife looked on and 
wondered, not unfrequently repeating to herself, what 
might have stood for the motto of her own life, “ I hope 
she won’t be meddling.” 

Meddling was the exact thing which Mrs. Ashton had 
always been most studious to avoid in herself, and to put 
down in others. Her moral creed went no farther than 
this — to let things alone. Had the greatest injustice 
been transacted before her eyes, by the virtue of not 
meddling she would have felt justified in washing her 
hands of all responsibility, and would thus have pur- 
chased peace for herself. Men profess to consider this 
tendency of Mrs. Ashton’s a great virtue in a wife. 
Let them try it. No doubt it had served the purposes of 


122 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


Mr. Ashton, and he had valued his wife accordingly — 
not certainly for what she actually did, but for what she 
was satisfied to leave undone. 

It might well be considered an alarming spectacle, by 
such a woman, to see Mary running about in her active 
way, and not running without an errand either, but evi- 
dently beginning to attempt something like reform ; first 
in the poultry-yard, then in the cow-house, and even in 
some other departments scarcely so likely to come un- 
der female observation. In justice to Mary, however, it 
must not be supposed that any thing of this kind was 
done in a meddling spirit, still less in a spirit of dicta- 
tion. She had a peculiar tact of her own in setting about 
and carrying through what she was bent upon ; and be- 
ing naturally quick to feel, as well as to perceive, she 
knew exactly, and in a moment, when she was in dan- 
ger of stepping beyond the boundary line of due consid- 
eration for others. Her observations, too, were carried 
on chiefly in the companionship of her husband, for it 
had always been William’s great delight to have his 
wife with him whenever he took his walks of inspection, 
or made a more limited survey of the premises and home- 
stead. And now that the spring was coming on, and 
there were so many young animals to look after, they 
had both a continual source of interest in talking over 
what the spring weather was likely to develop, with re- 
gard to the farm and its produce. 

There was the more need for Mary to take a lively 
part in these matters because her husband, instead of 
being encouraged by his recent change of circumstances, 
seemed to be growing absolutely downhearted and hope- 
less of any good. He “ could not understand things,” 
he continually repeated to his wife. There was scarce- 
ly any stock upon the farm ; all was run out, or gone to 
waste in some way or other ; and as to capital to lay 


FOREST FARM. 


123 


out, he had never known his father so short before, even 
when he had a heavy rent to pay for his land. Where 
Goidd the money be gone? That was the question 
which continually perplexed him. Mary thought they 
had better alter their agreement ; and so, making free 
use of the small capital which they themselves retained, 
endeavor by that means to restore the farm to a good 
working condition, so as to obtain something more re- 
munerative for all. 

If William had cause to be dissatisfied with the state 
of things without, Mary had no less so within. Old Mr. 
Ashton had evidently taken a sort of fancy for her ; he 
liked to have her near him to pet, and coax, and even to 
joke with ; though his jokes, being not always the most 
refined, made Mary sometimes shrink and quiver as if a 
sharp arrow had been sent at her, instead of a jest. But 
worse even than this want of delicacy was the low mor- 
al tone which pervaded most of the old man’s conversa- 
tion, such as Mary found it difficult indeed not to rise 
up against with mingled indignation and disgust. She 
knew, however, that if once she did this, all chance of 
influence would be over with her forever. Besides 
which, she had not gone there to afifront her husband’s 
father ; and she was continually reminded by the moth- 
er, though in a covert way, that she had not gone there 
to meddle. 

So there was nothing for Mary but to be quiet for the 
present ; and if it was at all her ambition to be wise as 
the serpent, to be very careful to be also harmless as the 
dove. Sometimes, it must be owned, that when William 
was from home, and not likely to come back in time to 
detect the trace of tears, Mary did indulge in a long fit 
of Aveeping ; for wfith all her outward cheerfulness, and 
her real interest in the events of the passing hour, she 
was sadly out of her element among these strange peo- 


124 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


pie, and, except with the old man, did not appear to be 
making any way at all. There was a boy— a wayward, 
idle, good-for-nothing boy, the youngest of the family — 
who seemed absolutely to despise her ; and as to Bessy, 
the one she most desired to conciliate, there seemed to 
be an impassable barrier betwixt them, which no at- 
tempts on Mary’s part were able to remove. 

“ If only she would be a little kind to the children,” 
Mary often said to herself, “ I think I should find a way 
to her heart;” but she saw only too plainly that her 
countenance darkened when they went near her, and 
was not quite sure that a smart slap was not adminis- 
tered to them sometimes when the mother’s back was 
turned. 

It was, indeed, very difficult for Mary to make herself 
even moderately comfortable under these circumstances ; 
and but for those earnest prayers which she was in the 
habit of. pouring forth, and the strong faith she still 
held by, that they were heard and registered on high, 
she would undoubtedly have sunk altogether under the 
accumulated weight of miseries too vague to find a 
name, yet too grievous in their aggregate to be sustain- 
ed by merely human fortitude. Any thing low, any 
thing poor, any thing mean in a worldly point of view, 
Mary could have borne cheerfully and nobly, had she 
been associated with people who kept the fear of God 
before them. She had never been otherwise situated in 
her whole life until now. She had never before lived 
with those who did not love honor, and truth, and fair 
dealing. But here she was subjected to the degradation 
of hearing continually some selfish chuckle of the old 
man’s over an advantage gained, or a trick performed, or 
something done by which he was a gainer to another 
person’s loss. William could ill endure this, though 
more accustomed to it than Mary, but he treated it rath- 


FOEEST FAEM. 


126 


er as folly than wickedness ; for, as he often told his wife, 
he thought his father was growing childish, and in all 
respects much altered for the worse during the last 
three or four years. 

One means of refreshment to her often tried and wea- 
ried spirit was found by Mary in joining a little commu- 
nity of her own people, whose religious services she was 
able, without much difficulty, to unite in. This was al- 
most the only point on which her husband’s family inter- 
fered in any active manner with her proceedings. They 
did, in their very hearts as they said, despise and abhor 
those Methodists ; and the scorn with which they re- 
garded their meetings, their habits in general, and all 
which rendered them a peculiar people, was too intense 
to be confined within the bounds of moderation or civil- 
ity of speech. William, for peace’ sake, had gone so far 
as to ask his wife if she could not manage to give up 
these meetings, at least for a while. But Mary had ut- 
terly rejected the proposal, because, as she said, it was 
not right to make it, and therefore it would be wrong 
in her to yield to such a request, made as it was, only for 
the sake of meeting the prejudices of those who had no 
religion of their own. 

Tossed and tried by a thousand new and conflicting 
considerations, and especially pained by the under cur- 
rent of conviction that something Avas absolutely wrong 
in what was around and about her, it was not to be won- 
dered at that Mary’s hitherto excellent health gave way, 
and that she was surprised by a fit of illness unusually 
severe and sharp. The attack was inflammatory, requir- 
ing a good deal of attention ; and Mary’s own nurse, 
with two children and the baby to take care of, had 
quite enough to do without attempting any service in 
the sick room. Besides which, her mistress had to be 
kept very quiet, so that she was under the necessity of 


126 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


getting the children out of their mother’s hearing as oft- 
en as she could. 

Had William not been an excellent nurse, Mary would 
have been in danger of suffering from absolute neglect ; 
but he gave up many of his outdoor occupations to re- 
main with her, and if he could not perform all the wom- 
anly duties of a sick-room, he could at least keep her 
spirits cheerful, and her mind comparatively at ease, only 
it was impossible for him to conceal that he was himself 
sadly in want of the encouragement he endeavored so 
studiously to impart. 

Among other causes of vexation, William was both 
ashamed and disappointed at the behavior of his mother 
and sister. Mrs. Ashton, it is true, often came to the 
door of Mary’s room, and asked if any thing was want- 
ed. But as for really doing any thing of her own ac- 
cord, that would have been too decided a departure from 
her usual plan of life — it would have been too much like 
meddling. 

Like here and there one of his sex, William was al- 
ways rather peevish when he was unhappy ; and now his 
reiterated exclamations about “that Bess,” as he chose 
to call his sister, afforded a channel, though not a very 
amiable one, through which a flood of irritated feelings 
seemed to flow, all centring in their violence upon that 
one leading fact of Bessy’s never offering a helping hand, 
but letting people die before her face without one at- 
tempt to save them. In which strain he went on until 
Mary asked, at last, what Bessy was really doing. 

“Nothing, absolutely nothing,” said William. “She 
stands in the old porch, with her arms folded, just like 
those images that bear the weight of a doorway on their 
heads — Caryatides, I think people call them — and though 
I saw she was staring out into the orchard, where the 
children were running about — bless their little hearts \-r- 


FOREST FARM. 


127 


she never stirred a step to go to them, nor threw a fir 
apple, nor pulled a flower to please them. I can’t think 
what she is made of.” 

“Well, never mind, William dear. Some day, per- 
haps, she’ll have children of her own, and then we shall 
see the difierence.” 

“ But there should be no difference in such a case. 
That’s just what vexes me — people living only for them- 
selves and their own, and letting every thing else go to 
the .” 

“ Hush, William ! Don’t talk like that. Perhaps even 
Bessy will come round some of these days. But I do 
wish she would look to the children ever such a little, so 
as to let Nancy come to me sometimes. Besides which, 
it would do her own heart good.” 

“ It would. I declare her conduct is not decent, to 
say nothing of being womanly. I’ll go myself, and ask 
her now, this very minute. I’ll make her do some- 
thing.” 

“ Stop, William ! Oh, pray stop ! You’ll distress me 
— almost kill me, if you do ask her. That is one of the 
things I can not bear, indeed ! So come back directly. 
And now, while I hold your hand, jDromise me this — that 
you never will, for me or mine, ask services from your 
own family which they have not first offered of their 
own accord. If you wish me to recover, William, prom- 
ise me this. I must have your promise now.” 

William did promise, for he saw how much his wife 
was excited and disturbed by the bare idea of compul- 
sory service rendered to herself ; and when he thought 
the matter over more coolly, he scarcely wondered at 
her strong feelings on this point. It became his great 
object now to try to soothe the agitation he had caused, 
and while he did so in his kindest, gentlest manner, the 
door of the room was burst open, and in rushed their 


128 


CHAPTEKS ON WIVES. 


rosy, happy boy, dragging his little sister by the hand, 
evidently come to tell of some wonderful event which 
animated his w^hole frame with triumph and delight. 

The purport of the boy’s story was that he had been 
riding — riding with Uncle Ben on the pony, and that 
even little sissy had been lifted up, and “held fast — so 
fast ! Wasn’t it good of Uncle Ben ?” exclaimed the 
boy ; and Mary said it was very good, for her heart fill- 
ed with gratitude at this weak moment, until the tears 
stood in her eyes ; and William thought within himself 
what a blessed thing is kindness, when it can reach a 
human heart in this way ! 

But this was not all. In the afternoon of the same 
day Nancy, the nurse-maid, came to tell her mistress that 
Miss Ashton, all of her own accord, had taken the chil- 
dren out with her into the wood — baby and all; and, 
after inquiring how long she might keep them, had 
promised to bring them back safe and sound at the right 
time. 

Again Mary felt the hot tears stealing olf from her 
eyes upon the pillow, in which she half buried her face ; 
and when she had lifted up her heart to God in thank- 
fulness and prayer that this might be the beginning of a 
happy interchange of good-will and mutual services, she 
turned to her servant with a brighter smile than her 
countenance had worn for many days, and gave cheerful 
directions as to all she had so sadly wanted to have done 
in and about the room. 

If Mary’s quick perceptions could have penetrated to 
the outskirts of that little wood, into which their new 
and able nurse had promised to take the children, she 
would have seen a woman’s form, at once strong and 
nimble, wending its way along a grassy path, over stile 
and brook, and then pushing carefully back the branches 
of the trees and sprays of bramble, so that nothmg hurt- 


FOEEST FAEM. 


129 


fill might touch a little treasure coiled safely and tender- 
ly within those powerful arms ; while the small party be- 
hind went on wondering exceedingly, and scarcely ven- 
turing to ask where they were going, now stepped with 
timid feet over the plank which crossed a tiny stream, 
and now gladly accepted the help of that outstretched 
hand which lifted them occasionally over some difficulty 
too great for them to surmount. The mother would 
have seen that, after a little scrambling, a pleasant open- 
ing in the wood was found, where the stems of some fall- 
en trees afforded a convenient resting-place ; and that 
here the baby was carefully unfolded, its little face ex- 
amined with curious eyes, its tiny hands softly touched, 
and then a finger offered that the small ones might clasp. 
She would have heard, about this time, a perfect Babel 
of nonsense chattered to the happy little thing, while the 
older children were shown where the pretty moss was 
lying, and told of the birds, how they built their nests, 
and where ; and when all these wonders had been expa- 
tiated upon, and all hands filled, and more than filled, 
wdth little peeping daisies, and gray lichen, and tender 
moss, and the happy infant had begun to sleep, she would 
have heard the soft trilling of as sweet a song as ever 
wood-nymph listened to ; and then, if she had watched 
closely and listened well, she would have been sensible 
that the song faltered in its rich full cadence ; that the 
fine head drooped ; and over that carefully-shrouded lit- 
tle form, as it nestled closely to the heart- warmth it was 
used to, there were falling large heavy tears like a per- 
fect shower. 

But Mary’s eye saw not those tears — her ears heard 
neither the laughter nor the song. She only guessed at 
a good deal of what was transpiring, and lay with thank- 
ful heart and happy feelings, awaiting the joyful an- 
nouncement, on her children’s return, that they had been 
F 2 


130 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


into “ Oh, such a beautiful place, and that Aunt Bessy 
had been so kind !” 

But Aunt Bessy took care not to come into the way 
of hearing these praises and comments herself. With 
that strange perverseness which characterized her, she 
sent a servant to request that Nancy would come and 
take the children ; and when Nancy appeared, she com- 
plained of being tired to death, and said how she hated 
babies and children in general, and how she wondered 
that any body could endure them, until the girl, half vex- 
ed, was very nearly saying she would take good care she 
never was troubled with her children again. On carry- 
ing the baby up stairs, however, Nancy w^as astonished to 
hear the account given by the other children, who had 
rushed in before her to tell their story of delight. 

Mary was most anxious to teach her children to be 
grateful, and she began with this teaching from their 
early infancy, for gratitude must always be taught. It 
can not spring spontaneously in minds incapable, through 
inexperience, of forming any idea of what is actually 
done and suffered by others. Why will not all mothers 
do as Mary did, and thus provide for their children 
the frequent recurrence of one of the most happy and 
most blessed emotions of which the human heart is 
capable ? 

By inspiring in her children this tendency to feel grate- 
ful, and also to express gratitude for any service done, or 
kindness shown them, Mary provided for them friends 
wherever they might be ; and even here, among these 
strange people, the habits of her children began to make 
way for them into the hearts of their relatives, which had 
at first appeared to be so obstinately closed against all 
their advances. 

Uncle Ben, the youth already described as wayward 
and idle, had probably never, in all his life before, enjoy- 


FOREST FARM. 


131 


ed the pleasure of being thanked so heartily and feeling- 
ly as he was by the children whom he had indulged with 
the rare excitement of a ride. As the owner of the 
pony, too, he was quite a hero in their eyes ; and when 
the smaller of the two children, the little girl who could 
not speak, pursed up her tiny mouth with the offer of a 
kiss by way of thanking Uncle Ben, and he stooped down, 
almost blushing, to receive this innocent return, which 
was all she had to offer, it is quite probable that the boy 
was conscious of something more like worth within him- 
self than he was accustomed to experience. 

Indeed, nobody ever thought of worth attaching in 
any way to poor Ben. Scarcely was any credit allowed 
him for one single good quality. Bessy seldom spoke to 
him but with jeering and scorn ; and if he escaped a box 
on the ears from her j)owerful hand, when he met her in 
any convenient place, he might esteem himself fortunate. 
With the father he fared even worse ; while the mother, 
who scrupulously abstained from meddling in his defense 
in public, did sometimes find an opportunity for a little 
private petting, especially when he had done something 
worse than usual, or conducted himself altogether with 
less regard to propriety. 

It was a sad spectacle to Mary to see a boy just verg- 
ing upon manhood thus driven, as she thought he must 
be by such treatment, into the high road to ruin ; but 
earnestly as she desired to hold out a helping hand to win 
him back, all such effort on her part seemed to be entire- 
ly out of the question at present. 

On these subjects Mary pondered deeply while she lay 
upon her sick-bed. If once the way should open before 
her, she would be prompt and willing enough to do good 
in any manner that might be possible to her ; and surely, 
she thought, the time would come when she might help 
a little toward getting all this wrong set right. She 


132 


CilAPTJillS ON AVIVES. 


must be still and Avait. Yes, again and again she told 
her quickly-beating heart to be still. She thought over 
some of the most striking instances she had read of open- 
ings occurring at the very time Avhen there Avas least 
ground for hope. She reasoned Avith herself upon the 
folly of supposing that her feeble agency could be re- 
quired in such a cause. She kneAv Avell — no one could 
know better — that she possessed no extraordinary gifts 
or talents to render her more capable than others for 
helping on God’s work in benefiting and saving his poor 
erring creatures. And yet the impulse, the almost burn- 
ing impulse, remained the same — that if He would only 
give her strength and wisdom for the task, it must, and 
should be done. 

Why Avas this impulse given ? That question can only 
be answered by telling what Mary did. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Before Mary had quite recovered her usual strength 
her husband was called from home for a few days. There 
was business to be done in which the assistance of a law- 
yer was required, and old Mr. Ashton ahvays preferred 
that his nephew Peter should be consulted in every thing 
connected with the afiairs of the farm. 

William would have chosen almost any one before his 
cousin Peter ; but there seemed to have been establish- 
ed a kind of intimacy between the uncle and nepheAv, 
Avhich William could neither disregard nor understand. 
So, having other business to transact by the way, he set 
ofi* on a journey of two or three days, leaving his wife 
with considerable regret, because he kneAV there Avas 
no one at home who would take care that she did not 
exert herself too much ; nor Avas it very probable that 
any one there Avould make the least attempt either 


FOEEST FAEM. 


133 


to lighten her labors, or cheer her solitude during his 
absence. 

And very solitary Mary did feel herself when thus left, 
the more so because the first recovery from illness is gen- 
erally a time when the spirits sink under accumulated 
duties, which have to be resumed without adequate 
strength for their performance. It is also a time when 
most things appear to be thrown into almost irreclaima- 
ble disorder, when more has to be done than it is possi- 
ble to get through with, and when life itself seems to 
have been going backward instead of forward, while abil- 
ity to gather up what has been lost is entirely wanting. 

Little did Bessy Ashton, in her idle and care-nothing 
state, imagine what a comfort a few kind words would 
have been in a silent chamber not very distant from her 
own, or what help a useful hand and strong arm might 
have rendered where help was sorely needed. She did 
not even go to see what could be done in that quarter 
of the house which was occupied by her brother’s fam- 
ily, but kept aloof in a' strange unsisterly manner ; while 
the mother made only those short periodical visits of in- 
quiry which tell but too plainly of the irksomeness of re- 
maining, and the satisfaction of getting away. 

Mary was miserable — so miserable that she thought 
she must be growing wicked. She reproached herself 
severely for giving way to feelings of discontent. She 
tried to beguile the time with her children, but the 
weather had become beautifully fine, and they liked to 
be out all day, and' she liked it for them. So she sat in 
her own room stitching and mending, and sometimes 
crying, until, one particularly mild and pleasant after- 
noon, she made up her mind to try and get out to a 
meeting, which she knew would be held that evening in 
an adjacent village. It was but a short distance to walk 
across the fields, and Mary felt sure it would do her 


134 


CHAPTEKS ON WIVES. 


good. For her heart was Wearied with these godless 
people, and she wanted to hear something about the 
eternal interests of her own soul, and of those of her fel- 
low-beings. She wanted, in fact, to hear about her Fa- 
ther in heaven, and his goodness to rebellious man — to 
hear something like the communion of grateful hearts 
one with another, and all with his Holy Spirit — some- 
thing of that faith in a blessed Savior which would have 
called forth mockery and scorn, had she spoken of it 
herself among the people by whom she was surrounded. 

So, whether prudently or not, Mary determined to go 
to the meeting. She had much to return thanks for on 
her own recovery, and restoration to her family; and 
she wanted to pour out the feelings of her soul among 
those who recognized the same hand of mercy in all the 
personal dispensations, whether joyous or grievous, of 
their earthly lot. 

To her own servant alone Mary communicated where 
she was going, and by what way she should return, so 
that, when the children were disposed of for the night, 
the girl might step out and see after her a little by the 
way ; as, although she was strong in her resolution, she 
had not entire confidence in her ability to walk, and she 
thought a companion might, perhaps, be serviceable to 
her in returning home. 

The evening was mild and lovely when Mary set out. 
INancy and the children accompanied her part of the way, 
leaving her seated on a stile, for she had allowed herself 
ample time to rest ; and the grass felt so pleasant to her 
feet, and the air was so balmy, and altogether it was so 
delightful to her to be out again, to hear the birds sing- 
ing their evening songs, and to see the trees waving in 
a gentle breeze ; it 'was so cheering to be out again with 
Nature, and with Nature’s God, that Mary felt her faith, 
and hope, and charity alike renewed as she gazed around 


FOREST FARM. 


135 


her, and drank in the beauty of the surrounding scene, 
and breathed again the breath of renovated health. 

It was almost as good, she thought, as the prayer- 
meeting to which she was going, to sit there in that 
quiet place, and look abroad upon the beautiful world 
again, after having been so long shut up in a dark and 
gloomy chamber. But no ; there was something in 
Christian fellowship which she longed for besides ; and 
since she could have both, she rose up and went again 
on her way, scarcely wearied at all with the exercise, she 
had taken it so gently and with such frequent intervals 
of rest. 

The cordiality with which Mary was greeted at the 
meeting was written upon many a homely countenance, 
and many a toil-worn hand was stretched out to welcome 
her among that earnest little company. Her peculiar 
circumstances, and especially her recent illness, were re- 
membered in the quaint language of their prayers ; and 
Mary bore without flinching the somewhat close and fa- 
miliar allusions made to her own affairs, while commend- 
ing her especially to Divine mercy and guidance. The 
character of the family into which she had entered was 
well known to these people, and they had little scruple 
in speaking openly of what they considered the perilous 
and wanton manner in which they were “ sinning away 
their day of grace.” But all this was accompanied with 
such earnest and heart-warm entreaties that the wander- 
ers might yet be reclaimed and brought into the fold, 
that, revolting as this familiar style of address might 
have been to Mary under other circumstances, it only 
reminded her now of the mode of worship to which she 
had been accustomed since the days of her childhood ; 
and she knew, besides, that it proceeded from a spirit of 
childlike confidence and trust, such as she believed to be 
the only right spirit in which to approach the throne of 


136 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


mercy. The words were of little consequence to Mary 
— the spirit was all ; and while she listened and prayed 
along with those who offered up these fervent petitions, 
a feeling of resignation, and even contentment, diffused 
itself throughout her whole frame; so that she began to 
feel, toward the conclusion of the service, as if fresh sup- 
plies of strength, as well as willingness, were given her, 
both to do and to suffer whatever might be appointed 
by her Heavenly Father as the especial service required 
at her hands. 

Mary forgot too much, while thus engaged, that she 
had a feeble body to drag about with her still — that all 
the service of the Christian is not a spiritual service. 
The low room was close and crowded, and she was sens- 
ible, at last, of a sudden faintness, which made her rise 
up before the others to go away. 

Few things could be more uncongenial to Mary than 
a scene^ with herself for the heroine. She therefore said 
not a word about her feelings, but, moving softly and si- 
lently out of the room, made her way as quickly as she 
could into the open air. She had but two or three cot- 
tages to pass before the path turned off into the fields ; 
and she was able to reach the side of a little brook which 
she had to cross in returning home. Here she sat down 
upon a stone, bathed her face and hands in the water, 
and soon felt refreshed. Her strength, however, so near- 
ly failed her, that when she rose to cross the bridge, she 
was obliged to hold by the side rails, and had begun to 
look about her, in the hope of seeing her servant come 
to meet her, when a man’s figure close beside her made 
her start; but as he must have come along the path 
which Nancy was to take, she ventured to ask him if he 
had seen a young woman walking that way. 

Whether there was something in Mary’s voice which 
indicated her weakness, or whether the light still left in 


FOREST FARM. 


137 


the western sky showed some alarming paleness in her 
face, the man looked at her earnestly; and after replying 
to her question that he had seen no such person, he still 
hesitated to pass, but with his eyes fixed thoughtfully 
upon her face, said kindly, 

“ I’m afraid you are ill. Can I be of any service to 
you ?” 

Mary felt exceedingly embarrassed ; but, with a cheer- 
ful smile, declined the offered help, saying she should do 
very well if she walked slowly, and that her servant 
would be sure to meet her. But the man, or gentleman 
— she did not know which it was — refused to leave her 
so, saying he would walk- a little way behind her, if that 
would be more agreeable. 

“No, no,” said Mary; “if you help me, we will go 
together ; but the fact is, I don’t know who you are, 
though you seem very kind, and I am sure I thank you 
very much.” 

“ I am afraid your knowing who I am would scarcely 
make my assistance more agreeable to you,” said the 
man. 

Mary looked for the first time full into his face. It 
was turned toward the west, and she saw those splendid 
eyes of which her husband had spoken, and she knew 
also by the soft tones of the voice who it was. 

“Ah !” she said kindly, and at the same time holding 
out her hand, “I believe I do know. Are you not my 
cousin? I am Mary Ashton, William Ashton’s wife.” 

“ I knew you must be William’s wife,” said the stran- 
ger, averting his face and standing back, without having 
taken the ofiered hand. 

“ Let us meet as cousins, then,” said Mary ; “ and as 
I mean what I say, I will ask you now to walk with me 
a little way, and even to let me lean upon your arm, for 
I have been very ill, and am not quite strong yet.” 


138 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


“I know you have,” said the man; “but, weak as 
p^ou are, I don’t think you would like to lean upon my 
arm.” 

“ Yes, I should, if you will let me. Why not ?” 

“ Because you have been to a Methodist meeting, and 
I have been — ” 

“ N ever mind where. It is where we are going, not 
where we have been, that makes the great difference.” 

“With us I should think that must be, indeed, the 
great difference. But if you don’t mind it, here’s my 
arm, and I hope you’ll lean upon it as much as you can. 
I’m sure I should like to help you, for they say you are 
very good and kind, only we may chance to meet some- 
body you know.” 

“ I don’t care if we meet the whole world.” 

“ I think you would care, though.” 

“No, I shouldn’t.” 

“ Then you don’t know all.” 

“ I know a good deal ; and I know you are my hus- 
band’s cousin, the son of respectable parents, and espe- 
cially of a good mother.” 

“ The greater my shame.” 

“ Oh, don’t think of that !” 

“ What is there for me to think of besides ?” 

“Of the way back again out of shame, and out of 
misery.” 

“ There is no way back for such as me.” 

“Don’t talk in that manner. If you help me with 
your arm, you must not distress me with your words.” 

“No, no. It was very wrong of me. I will talk of 
something else. How is William ? and how does he like 
the farm ? William and I were schoolfellows, and great 
cronies once.” 

“ So he tells me.” 

“ What ! does he ever talk about old times, and about 


FOREST FARM. 


139 


me, now ? Only to abuse me, I suppose. Indeed, what 
else can he do ?” 

“ I wish you would come and see us sometimes.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! That is good ! What ! I put my head 
into the old house that ought to have been my own, 
and call William master there, as I suppose he will be 
soon ?” 

“ It won’t be William’s fault if he is. But I don’t 
think he ever will be that.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ He has too strong a sense of right.” 

“ Whew !” 

“ I am talking, however, without understanding much 
about the matter. William and I are both in the dark. 
He only came here to help his father to manage the farm. 
He was living away, you know, when his uncle died, and 
no one could be more astonished than William was 
when he found how things were left.” 

“ And where is he gone now ?” 

“ To see Peter, and to settle some business of his fa- 
ther’s with him.” 

“ Oh ! he’ll learn enough there. Peter will tell him. 
Peter will make him acquainted with all sorts of smooth- 
going facts. He’ll have a reason for any thing, and an 
excuse for any thing — most especially a reason why 
black should be white, and an excuse for it not being 
quite white.” 

“ But perhaps William won’t be come over so easily 
as that.” 

“Yes, he will, because he has an honest heart of his 
own, and such are the easiest to come over by men like 
Peter. They don’t suspect, and so they get easily duped. 
They are not knavish, and slippery, and false themselves, 
so they never think other people are knaves — not such 
knaves as Peter, at least. But what’s the matter ? Oh, 


140 


CHAPTERS ON AVIVES. 


I’m talking too roughly! Do pray forgive me. Sit 
down here just a moment, and I’ll fetch some water. 
Why, she’s fainting, I do declare! Oh, Mary! — ^my 
cousin — you angel of a woman, Avhat must I do ?” 

Mary was not so far gone hut that these words struck 
almost ludicrously upon her ear; and, with a sudden 
flush, she immediately recovered herself sufficiently to 
smile at Avhat her cousin was saying — so sudden in its 
change of tone, as well as sense, and so absurd as the 
expressions sounded to Mary in their application to 
herself. 

“There!” said Mary, making a determined effort to 
rouse herself. “ I neA^er fainted in my life, and I’m not 
going to faint now, only I believe we must not talk in 
this Avay any more. Call me any thing you like, how- 
ever silly, but don’t let us enter upon these matters until 
I am strong again. Some things touch one more than 
others. I have been thinking a great deal while I was 
ill and lonely, and some time — I don’t know when — But 
oh ! I do wish that William and I could see you, and 
know more about you.” 

“ I tell you what, Mary — I suppose I may call you 
Mary?” 

“ Oh yes, to be sure.” 

“Well then, Mary, to know but a little about me is far 
better for you both than to know a great deal.” 

“ But if we don’t think so ?” 

“ You would think so if you only knew one half.” 

“Well, then, we won’t knoAV any thing that is past 
and gone. I don’t care about that. I should be sorry 
to be told. But there is a future, you know, for every 
body. It is that that I want to talk to you about.” 

“ Do you walk this Avay ever ?” 

“Yes, very often — almost OAxry week.” 

“ If you Avould let me, I think I should like to meet 


FOREST FARM. 


141 


you sometimes, and walk Avith you part of the way 
home.” 

“ I should like it — 

“ A pretty game for me to he playing, truly — to wait 
for my cousin’s wife coming out of a Methodist meeting 
— such a scamp as I am! And the summer nights at 
this time will be as light as day, and lots of people will 
see us together. No, I’m quite sure you wouldn’t like 
it.” 

“Yes, I should. At any rate. I’ll tell you if I don’t. 
There might be circumstances under which I should not 
like it, certainly.” 

“ Yes, I know — I know all about thatP 

“ Well, then, it is agreed between us ?” 

“ Under your promise that you’ll tell me faithfully if 
you don’t like it, it is.” 

“ I do promise to tell you with perfect sincerity if any 
thing comes in the way to make me not wish it.” 

“ Yes, you do well to say wish instead of like. I knew 
you couldn’t like it.” 

“ You are very critical about words. But I think it 
best that you and I should be perfectly sincere with one 
another, and therefore I will say wish instead of like. 
But now we must say good-night, for I see my servant 
in the distance.” 

“There noAV ! That’s how it is, and that’s how it will 
always be. The moment any body sees us together, 
you’ll be ashamed of your companion.” 

“How absurd! I never for a moment thought of 
such a thing. I only wanted to spare you any further 
trouble. You don’t know me, indeed, if you think I’m 
a woman of that kind. I don’t think the fear of man is 
much before my eyes, and I’m sure the fear of woman 
isn’t.” 

“ That’s bravely said. But are you really better now, 
and won’t you faint again ?” 


142 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


‘‘ A great deal better, thank you, and not likely to 
faint, I hope, ever as long as I live. You may say good- 
night with the greatest confidence, as far as that goes.” 

“ Good-night, then. Cousin Mary ; but — but — don’t go 
just yet. I’m thinking what a happy fellow William 
must be.” 

“Not always, I assure you. A woman with a great 
spirit like mine can hardly manage so as not to vex her 
husband sometimes.” 

“ But he must be a happy fellow, though, for all that.” 

“ Perhaps you’ll be just as happy some time, or more 
so.” 

“ Oh, Mary ! you don’t know what you are saying.” 

“Yes, I do, quite well.” 

“ Me happy !” 

“ Yes, you, with a good wife of your own, and children 
about your knees.” 

“ Mary — Mary — you’re making a fool of me ! Why, 
look here. I’m a fool, indeed. I never thought you 
would wring a tear from these miserable eyes. What 
can you mean ?” 

, “ I mean this, my poor cousin — that there is a good 
God above us all, who knows our temptations and our 
weaknesses, even better than we know them ourselves ; 
and because he sees us all as we really are, he sees that 
we are all sinners — sinners in high places as well as low 
— sinners when honored, as well as when despised — all 
sinners, unless we come to him, and believe, and repent, 
and accept the forgiveness which he offers just in his 
own way, and upon his own terms : and I mean that he 
is as ready to pardon the poor outcast on these condi- 
tions, as he is to pardon the richest, or the loftiest, or 
the man with the best name, who may have sinned, as 
the world calls it, but a little. Ah, my cousin ! there is 
no setting bounds to the mercy of God’s forgiveness. 


FOREST FARM. 


143 


For what else did he send his Son into the world, hut 
that the vilest, the most destitute and ruined, might 
come to him, and find peace and joy, and live forever- 
more with him ? Think of these thinojs sometimes. Do 
promise me that you will. There must be thinking times 
even for you. Take your Bible, if you have one, and 
read about the thief on the cross. It was not too late 
even for him. But, cousin, one word more. Have you 
a Bible?” 

“I have my mother’s Bible — the one she gave me 
only the day before she died.” 

“ You could not have a better — none so good for you. 
It must surely bring a holy message with it. Good- 
night once more.” \ 

“ Good-night.” 

O 


CHAPTER Y. 

Mary was not sorry now that she had been left at 
home alone. Had William been with her, this inter- 
view with his cousin might not have taken place ; for, 
though he never attended the village meetings with her, 
he was in the habit of meeting her on her way home, 
and, in her present weak state, would certainly not have 
allowed her to walk so far without his assistance. 

Whatever the interview might lead to, Mary was 
deeply interested in what had taken place. She was af- 
fected even beyond what this slight and accidental in- 
tercourse might appear to warrant; for there are na- 
tures so constituted that they seem to flow together in- 
stinctively, irrespective of any proportionate amount of 
good or evil attaching to them individually. Thus we 
find, with some excellent persons, that there are certain 
characters, far indeed from being excellent like them- 
selves, upon whom they will not and can not turn their 


144 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


backs. They know what they are, and feel more than 
others both the shame and the sorrow of which their 
wrong conduct is the cause, but they can not give them 
up ; while, on the other hand, there are some very good 
persons — professors, it may be, of the same religious be- 
lief with themselves — perhaps members of the same 
church — with whom they never harmonize, and never 
would, to the end of time. 

It is not, strictly speaking, either love or hate — scarce- 
ly even liking or disliking — which makes this difference ; 
but rather a mutual instinct of nature, which enables the 
former class of persons to understand each other, so that 
comparatively few words are necessary to their inter- 
course. They can go down at once with each other to 
any depth of human feeling, or they can rise by the force 
of the same sympathy to any height. Thus it is that 
they have the power of being essentially useful to each 
other ; or, alas ! if evil tendencies predominate with both, 
to what frightful ruin may they not draw each other 
down ! 

Mary was keenly sensible of something of this kind in 
connection with her outcast cousin. She had felt pain- 
fully the want of it in the family at the farm ; for, though 
the old man appeared to take cordially to her, she could 
not but be aware of the shallowness of their intercourse, 
founded, as she knew it to be, upon her own natural 
cheerfulness and apparent good-humor; nor could she 
fail to understand how the first act of plain dealing on 
her part would, in all probability, cause a lasting separa- 
tion between them, if not something worse. For herself 
she would have cared little ; but, on her husband’s ac- 
count, it was of the utmost importance that cordiality 
should be maintained throughout the whole family, and 
particularly between his father and him. 

Thus far all had gone tolerably well. Almost the en- 


FOEEST FAEM. 


145 


tire management of tlie farm was committed to Wil- 
liam’s charge ; but the subject of money was still a mys- 
tery into which he was not permitted to penetrate. Like 
many other farmers of his class, Mr. Ashton kept no reg- 
ular accounts — at least, none that William could obtain a 
sight of ; and the conclusion at which the son at last ar- 
rived was, that his father’s case was only one of extens- 
ive and long-continued muddling ; and all who have had 
much experience in business know well that money needs 
no surer channel for escape. 

During the short journey that William made to see 
his cousin Peter, however, he obtained, as he thought, 
some light on this mysterious subject, which he was not 
slow to communicate to his wife. Of course there was 
much to talk over on his return, and Mary was anxious to 
know all that had transpired, especially what Peter had 
said on one point which it was William’s business to lay 
before him. Mary and her husband were both anxious 
that a sum of money should be raised for enabling the 
older brother to settle respectably in some distant quar- 
ter of the world, and it was their object to induce the 
younger and more prosperous one to advance this sum. 
This scheme, however, had fallen quite to the ground. 
It was the old story, William said, of Tom’s bad conduct 
— ^the uselessness of advancing money to any one whose 
habits were like his ; and, finally — ^William said this vex- 
ed him more than all — the old pretense of not being in 
circumstances himself to be able to throw any thing 
away upon a mere experiment. If, indeed, he could be- 
lieve — if he could venture to believe that his poor broth- 
er had seen the error of his ways — 

‘‘ With a great deal more in that strain,” said Wil- 
liam, “ to which I replied ‘ that Tom had seen the error 
of his ways clearly eno.ugh 5 but what then ? W^hat was 
there for the poor fellow to turn to, supposing he did 
G 


146 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


leave off his bad habits ? Once give a man a lift, set 
him fairly on his legs, and then if he won’t stand, give 
him up. But poor Tom never had a lift — never since 
the time he was a boy. He never learned a business 
regularly, and he never had any allowance made him, so 
that he could say he had a shilling of his own. If that 
isn’t enough to ruin a man, I don’t know what is.’ ” 

“ But, Mary,” William began, with a look of sharpen- 
ed interest, “ I do believe I’ve found something out. I 
begin to see a little, I think, how things stand. You 
know I had to call at the bank at Whinston as I went 
through. The last thing father said to me when I was 
setting off was, ‘ You may ask for my book while you 
are at the bank.’ I did so, and when the book was 
wrapped up and sealed, a thought struck me — I’ll see 
what’s in it. Now, if I had opened it myself, father 
mightn’t have liked it ; so 1 said to the clerk, ‘Just let 
me see, will you, whether a small sum has been entered 
which I have some doubt about ?’ You see the people 
thought nothing about this, because they know I do all 
father’s business for him now, and it was true besides ; 
so there was no lie told, you know. They opened the 
book just as I wanted them to, and I took it very know- 
ingly into my hand, and looked ; and what do you think 
I saw? No less than a hundred pounds paid to Peter 
Ashton down at Christmas. I was aghast ; but I looked 
back, and, true as I’m alive, there was another hundred 
not longer since than last Michaelmas. I was obliged to 
be quick, for it did not do for me to be examining the 
book farther back than I might seem to have any busi- 
ness with, while the folks in the bank had their eyes upon 
me ; so, saying I had found what I wanted, I gave it back 
to them to wrap up and seal again, and nobody took the 
least notice, that I could discover. Now, Mary, what do 
you think of that ?” 


FOEEST FAEM. 


147 


“ I think it looks very strange, William.” 

“ I’ll teU you what I think.” 

“ What is that ?” 

“ I think father pays some yearly sum, agreed upon 
between themselves, to Peter for holding the farm.” 

“ But the farm was left him by will, was it not ?” 

“ Yes. But then Peter and he were always too inti- 
mate a great deal for my liking ; and who knows what 
scheme they might have been after between themselves ? 
More than all, I should not wonder a bit if the farm will 
never come into my hands either, but go to Peter by my 
father’s will. I’ll know that, however, some of these 
days, or my name’s not William Ashton.” 

“ How can you know it ?” 

“ I’ll make my father tell me what he has done, or is 
going to do, about his will. I’ll have all fair and straight 
about that, or — ” 

“ Don’t be too hasty, William — don’t hurry the mat- 
ter on. Let us go quietly to work — above all, let us do 
right, and then all things will come right in the end.” 

“It strikes me they are very far from being right 
now.” 

“ Let us get to know more, and so be very sure of 
what we are about.” 

“ And how are we to get to know, I wonder, when 
every body is so false and so deep ? Oh ! Mary, it’s a 
dreadful thing to feel toward one’s own father as I do 
to mine. Any thing a man may fall into unawares, or 
even by being overtempted, I can make allowance for, 
if he is open and sincere about it. I could make allow- 
ance for my father above most men, for I don’t think he 
ever saw very clearly right from wrong in small matters. 
But then he should not have deceived me. He should 
not have brought us here as he did. I begin to wish 
wo had never come.” 


148 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


“We came with good intentions, William, and we 
don’t know yet what we may have come for ; there may 
be some hidden good in it yet.” 

“ Ah ! that’s the way you always take things, Mary ; 
spiritualizing about hidden good^ when there’s nothing 
but evil, and wickedness, and devilry, that I can see. I 
declare I shall go distracted with your Methodist talk, 
for it seems to me to have no sense in it at all — none, at 
least, that I can discover.” 

“ But you won’t be vexed with me, WiUiam. Why, 
just look here !” and Mary laughingly showed him how 
much too wide for her was a gown she was taking off, 
and which had fitted her well before her illness. Wil- 
liam was subdued in an instant, for he saw how pale she 
looked, and how unfit altogether for rough treatment or 
harsh words. 

Although for that night William’s tendency to vio- 
lence was overborne by his feelings of pity and tender- 
ness for his wife, his anger against his father returned 
again with the business of the following day, and, indeed, 
much more frequently than was conducive to the peace 
of the household. Before the discovery made at the 
bank, he had imagined nothing more than weakness on 
his father’s part as the ground of a strongly-complicated 
condition of his affairs ; and the very fact of being re- 
quested by his father to come and assist him was, to 
William, an unquestionable proof of confidence, which of 
itself insured his own good will in return. Now, instead 
of this confidence, he had reason to believe himself a 
dupe, brought under his father’s roof for the sole pur- 
pose of making some present profit out of his usefulness, 
with no consideration for the welfare of his family, or 
for his own future good in any way. This was too 
much to endure with patience, and more especially when, 
to these mortifying circumstances, was added the galling 


FOEEST FAEM. 


149 


thought that his cousin Peter was at the bottom of the 
whole scheme, and that he, and he alone, was the only- 
person likely to profit by it. 

It certainly required a state of mind much more sub- 
dued than that of William Ashton to bear this with 
equanimity ; and once having been brought to doubt his 
father’s sincerity and honorable dealing toward himself, 
he had little toleration for all those minor faults and 
weaknesses which, under any circumstances, would have 
demanded a large amount of charity and forbearance. 

Between William and his father were now sometimes 
heard high words, which Mary hstened to with mingled 
terror and distress ; while Mrs. Ashton went about the 
house murmuring her belief that somebody had been 
meddling. She had no idea of any other way in which 
that outward quiet, which it had been the study of her 
life to maintain, could be disturbed ; and of course, in 
these conclusions, her mind reverted to Mary as most 
likely to be the moving cause. Whether Mrs. Ashton 
really knew what jarring interests there were within her 
household — what dangerous matters there might be in a 
quiescent state, or what explosions would be likely to at- 
tend any violent commotion among these elements of 
strife, was only known to herself ; but one thing was ev- 
ident, that if ever the world was to be made better — 
nay, even if the wrong existing in her own little world 
of home was to be set right, she was not the woman to 
do it. 

Dark, indeed, and threatening grew the atmosphere 
by which Mary was surrounded now, in a home that 
-looked peaceful enough in its outward aspect. The 
worst feature to her, in the present state of her domes- 
tic affairs, was, that her husband now lost his temper so 
often, and spoke of his father in such a manner, that she 
became painfully conscious of something like growing 


150 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


enmity between them ; and while her heart sank within 
her to witness their words and looks, she also began to 
wish that they had never come to live beneath the same 
roof. 

Among other grounds of complaint, William discov- 
ered that his father now often lost himself in fits of in- 
temperance, which Mrs. Ashton had at first concealed 
from him under the plea of indisposition. This, he 
thought, accounted in great measure for the failure of 
his father’s mind, and the general deterioration of his 
character. But Mary thought there was a deeper cause 
than this, for her eyes were beginning to discover what 
her husband’s, under the excitement of angry feeling, 
failed to perceive. 

Mary, however, was not without help in the unravel- 
ing of some of the strange entanglements by which they 
were surrounded. There was but one person in the 
world at once both able and willing to afibrd this help. 
It was Mrs. Mason, the nurse, to whom Mary applied. 
Remembering much of what this woman had told her of 
the family, and knowing her to be open to communica- 
tion on the subject which was always near her heart, 
Mary had determined within herself to see the nurse 
again, and to elicit from her information more direct 
than she had yet communicated. 

Mrs. Mason lived at the village to which Mary went 
to attend the meetings, and she was in the habit of some- 
times looking in upon her on these occasions. When 
the day came around again, she therefore allowed her- 
self a spare half-hour before the meeting, in order that 
she might make the inquiries which it was of so much 
importance that she should have clearly answered. It 
was not Mary’s habit to go round about any business 
which she undertook. She had a natural shrinking from 
all by-play, or underhand dealing, both in herself and 


FOEEST FAEM. 


151 


Others. She was not going, therefore, to fish out what 
she wanted to know, but to ask directly, and at once, 
such questions as might guide her own judgment in 
forming an opinion. 

Still something might be necessary as a prelude, espe- 
cially as the subject, being closely connected with family 
matters, was scarcely of a nature to be entered upon ab- 
ruptly. So when Mary, on stepping into the cottage, 
found Mrs. Mason busily engaged in ironing shirts, she 
said, after the first salutation, 

“ I did not know that you took in washing, nurse.” 

“No more I do,” said Mrs. Mason, “unless one may 
call it taking in, to wash a shirt now and then for a gen- 
tleman; or for one that should be a gentleman,” she 
said in a lower tone, as she hung one of the shirts to the 
fire, and then came back with a sigh to resume her occu- 
pation. 

“I suppose you have been mending too,” observed 
Mary, “for I see some busy hand has been at work 
here.” 

“ Yes,” replied the woman ; “ it’s as much as needle 
and thread can do to make these old things hold togeth- 
er ; but still they’re fine and white, and once they’re well 
washed, and well got up, they look pretty decent still — 
more so a good deal, to my fancy, than them calico 
things. The puzzle is where to get more, when these 
won’t hang together any longer.” 

“ Ah !” said Mary, “ I see the mark. I guessed all the 
while who you were working for. Does he lodge with 
you?” 

“No, poor soul, not lodge, exactly. He comes here 
sometimes, and sits a bit ; and when he hasn’t another 
roof to put his head under, he knows very well he may 
find one here. I’ve a comfortable little room here, you 
see, on the ground floor ; and I’ve put a bed up in it late- 
ly, thinking it might be convenient sometimes.” 


152 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


“ And you wash and mend for him, do you, nurse 

“ Yes, I do what I can for him, poor dear, for his moth- 
er’s sake. I shall always see him decently cared for, so 
long as I’ve the power to help in it. But, you see, I 
can’t make his outside clothes for him. A new coat, 
such as he ought to wear, would cost a sight o’ money ; 
and yet that’s what he wants most. A hat — a good 
new hat — she has managed for him, poor soul ; but a 
coat, I fancy, would be beyond her means as well as 
mine.” 

“ Her ! Who do you mean ?” 

“ Why, Miss Ashton, to be sure. Who else should I 
mean ?” 

“ Does Bessy take that care about him, then ?” 

“ Bless your soul ! it’s wonderful the care she takes — 
it’s wonderful the things she thinks about, and does for 
him. It’s my belief she would slip off her own shoes, 
and go barefoot, to save his poor, tired, wandering feet, 
any day.” 

“And yet she seems always so careless and so indif- 
ferent.” 

“ Don’t you believe it of her. It’s all put on. You 
should see her as I see her sometimes.” 

“ Well, I suppose love can transform any body, but to 
me there is not a colder-hearted creature on the face of 
the earth than Bessy. I don’t blame her, mind. She 
owes me nothing ; only I do wish sometimes we could 
be better friends.” 

“ Oh ! let her alone, and you’ll find her out some 
time.” 

“ Perhaps she does not like me — does not believe in 
me, nor trust me.” 

“ I don’t know that, in regard to you in partic’lar ; 
but it’s nat’ral enough that she should look upon Mr. 
William as coming to the farm to keep it out of the 


FOEEST FAEM. 


153 


hands of them that have the best right to it — ^the only 
real right to it, if every body had theii* own.” 

“ I see what you mean, though, strange to say, I had 
never thought of that before. I should not wonder, aft- 
er all, if Bessy should find herself entirely mistaken. 
William begins to think the farm is disposed of al- 
ready.” 

“ Begins to think so, does he ?” 

“Yes, and he thinks so more and more.” 

“ If he had ever asked me, I could have told him 
something about that matter. But it was not my busi- 
ness to be interfering.” 

“ You lived with Mr. Ashton at the time of his death. 
Was he long ill?” 

“No, not ill exactly. He fell off in strength, and 
stooped a good deal, and went about like an old man be- 
fore his time. And then he had a stroke, but nobody 
would hear of it. There were those, you see, that didn’t 
want to hear of it. They wanted to make out that he 
was all right, and clear, and knew what he was about 
when he made his will. And so he did in one sense. 
He knew he was doing wrong by his own child. I heard 
enough about that when it was done. It was pitiful to 
hear how the poor old man called out for his son Thom- 
as, and said he had taken the bread out of his mouth, 
and that God would never forgive him for what he had 
done.” 

“ And you were witness to all that ?” 

“ Witness ! I could stand to it on my oath in a court 
of law, that if ever man repented of what he had done, 
my old master repented of making that will.” 

“ Did anybody hear him talk in that way besides you ?” 

“ Yes, Peter and his uncle both heard him, times and 
often ; but they said he was raving then — quite out of 
his mind. And then they found out he had had a stroke ; 
G2 


154 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


but they said it was after making his will, not before. I 
don’t say but he might have had one, only I’ll stick to it 
it was the second, not the first, and neither time was his 
senses took away — ^not quite.” 

“ Then it was not he himself that turned against poor 
Tom?” 

“ He ! Bless you ! he was only too fond of him. He 
got vexed with him sometimes as any body would ; for 
they’re a sore plague, is them boys that won’t go steady. 
I once had one myself, you know. I know what it is. 
But he’s dead and gone, poor dear — died in a strange 
land ; and I sometimes think, when I mend and patch 
for my master’s son, how I should have blessed the hand 
that did the same for mine.” 

“ Yes, nurse, and you will be blessed, depend upon it. 
I don’t believe there ever was a kind action done, not 
so much as a tear shed, even for one of these stray 
sheep, but it had a blessing with it one way or another.” 

“Then I think, Mrs. William, you’ll come in for a 
share of blessing yourself.” 

“ Why, what have I done ? I only wish I could do 
something.” 

“ Done ! Only think of that young man coming in to 
tell me, as proud as a prince, that you had taken hold of 
his arm, and spoken kindly to him ! Why, I believe that 
very act of yours has kept him sober all the rest of the 
week, only I rather looked for him last night, to be sure, 
and he never came. You never saw any body so set up 
as he was.” 

“ Does nobody ever speak kindly to him, do you think, 
then?” 

“Very few people, I should say, beyond Miss Ashton 
and me. And yet he was a tenderly brought-up child, 
and a good child, too, when he was very young — maybe 
a little, just a little bit too much indulged in having what 
he liked.” 


FOEEST FAEM. 


155 


“ By his mother you mean 

‘‘ By both father and mother, for they were both alike, 
always of one mind — such a happy couple while she 
lived !” 

“Your master must have been a sadly-altered man 
after he lost his wife.” 

“ He wasn’t like the same man at all. I should say he 
had never been a strong-minded man, but good-tempered, 
and always kindly disposed. He was led by her in al- 
most every thing, though he didn’t know it; and she 
was never the woman to let it be seen. When she was 
gone, however, any body might tell how it had been. 
He was lost — quite lost. And then, as the boys grew 
up, Peter got the upper hand, and vexed poor Tom, and 
drove him into bad ways. And then Peter went tale- 
telling to his father, and pretending he was sorry. It’s 
my belief he was glad all the time. But, you see, these 
things grew by little and little, and we were all a long 
time finding Peter out. He was always a smooth- 
tongued ’un, and some people haven’t found him out 
yet.” 

“ I should think that affair of the will must have shown 
pretty clearly what he was.” 

“ Yes ; but nobody knew about that except me, and I 
didn’t know rightly at the time what they were after ; 
only by putting things together since, I’ve got a pretty 
good idea.” 

“ One thing puzzles me very much, nurse. What could 
be Peter’s motive for getting the property left to his 
uncle, instead of himself?” 

“Why, don’t you see? Peter was always one for 
standing well with people. His living, you know, de- 
pends mainly on that. Now, if he had got his father to 
leave him the farm, it would have been seen through at 
once. Perhaps even his own father would have seen 


156 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


through that, for he always thought him hard upon his 
brother. So Peter and his uncle laid their heads togeth- 
er, and the farm was to be left out and out to the present 
Mr. Ashton — ^that’s what stood in the will, and the will, 
you know, had to be read; and in this way it didn’t 
sound so plain that Peter had any thing to do with it. 
But then I’ve an idea that this was done under a promise 
from Mr. Ashton that he would leave all, at his death, to 
Peter ; for by that time they might think the brother 
would have ruined himself outright, and so the thing 
would look reasonable enough. Now mind— I don’t say 
I Tcnoio all this to be so, but it’s my firm belief that some 
plotting, and planning, and wickedness of this kind has 
been going on between these two. Like to their like, 
you see — begging your pardon, as I should, since one of 
’em’s your husband’s father.” 

“ I think I see into it myself,” said Mary, very gravely ; 
“ but what to do I don’t so well see.” 

“Ay, that’s the question,” said the nurse. “ I suppose, 
law being law, nothing can turn it.” 

“ Do you think, nurse,” said Mary again, after thinking 
a little while, “ do you think you could take your oath 
that your master was forced into making that will ?” 

“That’s a ticklish point. You know there’s many 
ways of forcing without laying violent hands upon a per- 
son. There’s a kind of force, as one may say, in being 
overp er suaded.’ ’ 

“ But you could declare that he had had a stroke be- 
fore that ?” 

“ Yes, that I could, for I was with him myself the 
morning after, and helped him to get up ; and he could 
no more use his left hand than a dead man could, for at 
least a week after he was took, and he kind o’ dragged 
his left foot too.” 

“But his head — his mind — ^how was that?” 


FOEEST FAEM. 


157 


Queerish ; not quite right, nor altogether wrong.” 

“ He knew what he was about, I suppose ?” 

“ In some sense he did. But he was not himself nei- 
ther ; seemed frightened like — don’t know how.” 

“ What did the doctor think ?” 

“Well, I was witness to a good many of their tricks, 
and, true enough, before the will was made, when they 
were persuading him and working him up to it, and had 
almost got him into the mind — for they kept telling him 
it was all for the good of the family, and that if Tom took 
possession, then all would be wasted and ruined — when 
they had got him to see things as they wanted him to 
see, they had him tried before the doctor one day. I 
suppose the doctor might want to know for his own satis- 
faction. However, for some reason or other, they got 
him to reckon up some bills, and to talk about some busi- 
ness that had to be settled, and he did manage that. I 
must own he managed that much to my surprise. And 
the doctor went away, to all appearance satisfied ; and 
that very same day the will was made. But oh, poor 
dear ! to see him afterward, and when there was only me 
beside him, how he did lament and go on about that boy, 
that he had struck off forever, as he said.” 

“ Was he there ? Was Thomas in the way?” 

“ Oh no ! They took care to get him off somewhere. 
They made an errand for him to Whinston, pretending 
to trust him with some very particular business — him 
that they said wasn’t fit to manage any thing ; and when 
he came back his father was very bad — nigh upon death, 
for this shortened his days. And his speech was a good 
deal gone then, and he could do nothing but moan, and 
look so, when Master Tom came into the room. It went 
to my heart, that it did — and it’s there yet ; and I don’t 
believe I can die happy unless I tell all that I know about 
this affair to some of ’em.” 


158 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


“ You have told me, nurse. You seem to recollect it 
very clearly. Suppose you write it all out on a paper, 
plainly and quietly, as it rises in your mind, some time 
when you are quite alone, and have nothing to agitate 
you ; and pray God to help you, so that you may write 
the honest truth, and nothing but the truth.” 

“ Ay, that’s just what I have often wanted to do. 
You think it would be right, do you ?” 

‘‘ I feel quite sure it would be right, whatever may 
come of it. I am particularly anxious that there should 
be such a statement written out.” 

“ You ! What for ?” 

“To have justice done, to be sure. For what other 
reason could I wish it ?” 

“ IsTay, I don’t know. You see, I’ve had a good deal 
to do with them that never aimed at justice at all — that 
aimed at nothing but serving their own ends ; and you 
must excuse me if I’m not over-ready to trust these pa- 
pers, and this getting people to write.” 

“Well, nurse, I don’t believe, when you think the mat- 
ter fairly over, that you’ll see much cause to suspect me. 
But I must leave you now ; and I do hope you won’t de- 
lay about writing the paper, will you ?” 

“ If you think I had better write it. I’ll try what I can 
do. But — I can’t tell how it is — somehow I get fright- 
ened when I’m by myself; for, you see, they were always 
getting papers written, and argued and persuaded peo- 
ple, to the hurt of them that should have been served 
better.” 

“ Come, nurse, you really must not be afraid of me. 
I don’t much wonder at what you feel. But just think, 
and then judge for yourself. Judge for yourself what 
my husband and I could possibly gain by having that 
win set aside, even if such a thing could be done. Not 
one penny, you see, could in any way come to us ; but. 


FOEEST FAEM. 


159 


on the contrary, we should lose a present mainte- 
nance.” 

“True — true. I see how it is. Well, I’ll try. Per- 
haps you would come and sit beside me ?” 

“ No, you must be quite alone — alone, with only the 
eye of God upon you. If any one should at all help you 
— especially remember this — ^if Thomas should know of 
it, that would spoil all. It must be entirely your own 
doing ; only when you come to sign it, I will tell you 
what to do, just as a form.” 

After repeating this charge Mary bade the nurse good- 
night, and went to the meeting. There was a relief 
which her nature seemed absolutely to crave, in joining 
the devotions of the little community who met there for 
praise and prayer ; and when the simjDle service was 
over, she rose up, strengthened and encouraged, to pur- 
sue her way. 

All through that day — indeed, all through the week — 
Mary had been hoping to meet again the companion 
who had joined her on that path, and who, in their short 
interview, had interested her so deeply ; and she now 
looked onward and around, in the expectation of seeing 
him, but in vain. Unwilling to lose the slightest chance, 
she loitered by the stiles, and even sat down once or 
twice, but still he came not ; and as the shades of evening 
deepened, Mary almost regretted that she had requested 
William would not meet her, because she knew that his 
presence would prevent his cousin from joining her. She 
had so much that she wanted to say to him, that the dis- 
appointment caused her severe pain, for her heart was 
very full. And must all this yearning solicitude be felt 
in vain ? Mary would have thought it indeed in vain, 
could she have known how the object of it was just then 
occupied, or with what companions he was wasting those 
precious moments which he might have spent with her. 


160 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Those who build their hopes upon a few kind words, 
or even a few kind actions, for effecting any serious ref- 
ormation of character, will generally find themselves 
doomed to severe disappointment. These are but acces- 
sories in the work ; yet, so far as they serve to open the 
door of confidence, not unfrequently prove most valua- 
ble ; and always, under any condition of human experi- 
ence, they bring their own abundant reward back to the 
heart from whence they emanate. 

Mary had been a little too sanguine in the calculations 
she had made upon the result of an acquaintance begun, 
as she imagined, so auspiciously with her cousin, Thomas 
Ashton. She was, perhaps, a little too sanguine gener- 
ally in what she undertook, ardently desiring that it 
should succeed. Still it was a failing not deeply to be 
deplored in her case, since it helped her to look cheer- 
fully upon human life, and supported her under many an 
arduous duty which, without this tendency of character, 
must have been relinquished, or only languidly and hope- 
lessly performed. 

Under her present circumstances, especially, no one 
could have wondered had Mary yielded to despair. But 
no; she still hoped on, and still set herself to work, 
though in what way to work was indeed a difficult ques- 
tion just now ; for every door seemed closed against her, 
and even her husband had little sympathy with some of 
her projects — that, for instance, which aimed at the res- 
toration of his father’s property in the farm to his own 
son, whom Mary persisted in considering as the rightful 
owner. William’s sense of justice carried him no far- 
ther than the breaking of the compact between his fa- 


rOEEST FAEM. 


161 


ther and Peter. It was absurd, be said, to think of set- 
ting aside a will lawfully made. Besides, how unjust to 
himself that he should be turned adrift, as he must be 
in that case, after expending the prime of his life and 
strength, and the whole of his own resources, in redeem- 
ing the farm from its waste and neglected condition to 
one of remunerative value. 

Mary listened quietly to these arguments, but it was 
with that kind of look and manner which convinced her 
husband that she remained “ of the same opinion still 
and this had the effect of irritating him more than any 
direct opposition would have done. 

Women often appear to men very obstinate, as well as 
very blind, in such matters ; yet even men have some- 
times, in the end, to acknowledge it was well they were 
so. This is when their moral sense has received so deep 
an impression as to the right and the wrong of some 
given case, that their reason refuses to take hold of the 
plea of expediency, interest, or even of the power of the 
law itself. It is marvelous, under such circumstances, to 
witness the little respect which they attach to all legal 
technicalities, as if the very language of the law was 
mere child’s play to them — that oracular language over 
which deep heads have pondered and majestic wigs have 
nodded, and with which vast fields of parchment and 
huge volumes have been laden as with wisdom more pre- 
cious than gold. And yet woman, weak woman, some- 
times dares to lift up her voice against all this, believing 
that she has a stronger argument, and a deeper wisdom, 
in the clear language of simple right and wrong. 

Thus it was that Mary remained most frequently very 
silent when her husband talked of the incontrovertible 
right which his father had, both to hold and to bequeath 
the property which had been a lawful bequest to him ; 
while he assured her again and again that the only thing 


162 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


wrong in the whole matter was the secret understand- 
ing between his father and his cousin, which had neither 
law nor equity for its support. It might not be exactly 
what people would call right, he said, for his uncle to 
leave the whole of his property to a brother instead of a 
son ; but that was the testator’s own affair, not theirs. 
There might be reasons for it, too, such as could not be 
explained to every body. Besides all which, it was done^ 
and done lawfully ; and there was an end of it, or ought 
to be, without any farther meddling. 

This way which William adopted of hinting to his 
wife that she had much better keep herself quiet, than 
attempt to stir up family strife, was extremely painful to 
Mary. Her very soul revolted against the idea of enter- 
ing a family as a meddling busy-body. Yet even this 
she bore quietly for the present, though all the while 
maintaining the same views with regard to the case al- 
together, and cherishing the same hopes that an over- 
ruling Providence would kindly make some way for 
bringing about a more equitable state of things, which, 
in her opinion, could not be merely what her husband 
would be satisfied with, but what her own conscientious 
feelings told her would be right. Often when William 
thought his wife must surely be convinced at last, and 
convinced forever, she was only keeping herself still as a 
matter of prudence, in order that she might not irritate 
him; or she was lifting up a silent prayer that God 
would establish the right, and overthrow the wrong, and 
that she herself might be so kept, by the power of His 
grace, as that she might not hinder, but rather help on 
the good work, let her own part in the matter be what 
it might with regard to individual suffering or loss. 

While Mary pondered in this manner upon the affairs 
of the family, waiting for the door of hope to open upon 
reality, she was not altogether frustrated in some of her 


FOEEST F^VEM. 


163 


endeavors, tliongli tried with much need for patience in 
others. Mrs. Mason, the nurse, had faithfully carried out 
her wishes. The paper was written at great leq^th, with 
the addition of details which had occurred to her recol- 
lection while writing; and this was placed in Mary’s 
hands, who was glad to have it in her keeping, though 
far from being confident that it was likely to be useful. 
Her cousin, Thomas Ashton, she had seen again more 
than once, and a kind of intimacy had come to be estab- 
lished between them, which had, however, nothing but 
his own moral and spiritual interests for its foundation ; 
for Mary was wise enough carefully to abstain from all 
appearance of taking part in the misunderstandings of 
the family, and still more from leaning either to one side 
or the other in their differences. 

All that Mary endeavored to effect in connection with 
her unfortunate cousin was to bring him back into a 
condition of respectability, and, if possible, to inspire 
within him that feeling of self-respect, without which 
there can be little ground for hope. For the carrying 
out of this purpose she was especially fitted by a more 
than ordinary share of that fine womanly tact which can 
show respect without expressing it in words, and which, 
as it pervaded her conduct, her conversation, and even 
her very looks, tended to assure the poor outcast that 
she, at least, considered him worth saving ; and, in doing 
this, she did not altogether fail in awakening within him 
a stronger desire to save himself. 

“ You have so much,” she said to him in one of their 
evening walks, “ to render life valuable to you.” 

‘‘I!” said he with astonishment. “What can you 
mean?” . 

“Yes, you,” replied Mary. “I often picture you in 
some far-off home — say in Canada, for example — begin- 
ning life afresh, without any body to point the finger of 


/ 


164 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


shame at you — ^poor it may be, but with health for hard 
work, and an honest heart, a willing mind, and a vigor- 
ous body, to make the homeliest morsel sweet.” 

“ But how am I to get there ?” he asked, almost im- 
patiently. 

“Ah!” replied Mary, “only be steady, perfectly 
steady, for a few months, and we’ll get you there, never 
fear, and somebody with you too ; for I’m no friend to 
your going away alone. I declare, if I was a young 
man,” she added, “ I wouldn’t wish for a pleasanter pros- 
pect than to start off with the woman I loved, all my 
own, and such a woman too, and to begin life where 
there was nobody to interfere with us. Do you ever 
think of this, Tom ? I am sure I think of it for you. 
And I picture Bessy in a log hut — she’s just the girl for 
that sort of life — and you away in the woods. And I 
think of you both in this way until I almost hear the 
timber crackling under your heavy stroke, and then I 
see you coming home when the day closes in. Yes, 
home I Only think of that ! And such a fine couple as 
you are, Tom ! Why, work would be nothing to you. 
Of all the women I ever saw, Bessy seems the likeliest 
for such a life. And then she loves you so I Oh, cous- 
in ! do you count nothing of that ? Is it aU to be thrown 
away for the laughter of a few idle companions that I 
know you don’t care for in your heart, or for a draught 
of low pleasure that turns to poison when it’s swallow- 
ed? I tell you love is strong as death, and woman’s 
love especially; and I tell you still — ^I tell you always, 
there’s a future in store for you that any reasonable man 
might think himself rich to possess ; and you’re not a 
man, Tom — you’re not worth calling a man, if you won’t 
strive, as you have never striven yet, to possess and en- 
joy it. Only — remember this — you must be worthy of 
it. Yes, that happiness never can be yours except on 


FOREST FARM. 


165 


one condition — you must repent, really repent. By re- 
pentance I don’t mean, as some people seem to mean, 
just groveling down into the dust. ^Neither is shame 
repentance. By real repentance I mean taking God at 
his word, looking up, instead of down ; and with an hon- 
est conviction believing all that he has told us to believe, 
simply because we have it in his blessed Word — ^believ- 
ing that Jesus Christ came into the world to save sin- 
ners such as we are — not in our sins, but to get us 
clean out of them, so that we shall not sin again forever- 
more.” 

In this manner Mary talked often with her cousin, al- 
ways with such kindness, and sympathy of tone and man- 
ner, that if he could not yet go along with her in her re- 
ligious exhortations, it was impossible for him to resist 
the conviction, that words of such earnest and affection- 
ate interest must have a deeper import than mere mo- 
mentary compassion. By degrees they won upon him to 
his own astonishment. “ But then” — there was always 
that vacillating but then — “ what was he to do ?” To go 
steadily on, Mary kept telling him — to show that he had 
really conquered his bad habits, and thus to inspire all 
who knew him with that confidence which can only be 
the result of perseverance. 

Mary did not think it necessary to tell her husband 
all that took place in these interviews with her cousin, 
though she made no secret of their occasional walks to- 
gether ; and William, while he thought her an enthusi- 
ast, and calculated but little upon any lasting good as the 
result, was quite satisfied that his wife should persevere 
in her benevolent endeavors to save one who, in his opin- 
ion, would never make the necessary effort to save him- 
self. 

Mary wondered all the time what Bessy was thinking 
and feeling on the subject. That her cousin would make 


166 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


her acquainted with what transpired, she could not 
doubt. Yet Bessy said nothing to her, though she fan- 
cied sometimes that she looked at her with a steady, 
searching gaze, which must have some meaning in it ; 
and sometimes Bessy would now actually offer, of her 
own accord, to take charge of the children for a few 
hours, so that Mary might be set at Uberty for other oc- 
cupations. 

“ She is a strange creature,” said Mary to herself; “ but 
I’ll just let her take her own course.” 

So there grew a little more appearance of good-will 
between them, without, however, an approach to any 
thing like intimacy. 

On one occasion, when William was from home on 
business, and likely to be out for the night, Bessy came 
and stood beside Mary late in the evening, as if she ei- 
ther wished to bear her company in her solitude, or 
would like to enter into conversation with her. But 
the ice is difficult to break after the feelings of two per- 
sons in close communication have been long frozen over; 
and Mary, though wishing to be civil, scarcely knew 
what to say. At last she began by this simple observa- 
tion — 

“Father has gone over to Whinston to-day, hasn’t 
he?” 

“ Yes,” replied Bessy, “ and I dare say he won’t be 
back early. The days are very long now.” 

“ Not too long for what I have got to do,” said Mary. 
“ These little folks of mine take a deal of sewing for.” 

“ They must be an endless trouble,” observed Bessy. 

“ Yes,” said Mary, “ but they are an endless joy. You 
don’t like children, I think ?” 

“ I don’t like any thing very much.” 

“ Oh ! but I think you do.” 

“ What is there that you think I do hke, then, for I’m 
sure I don’t know ?” 


FOREST FARM. 


167 


“ I think, to begin with, you like to stand in the old 
porch that opens into the garden, watching the flowers, 
and listening to the birds.” 

“ I stand there when I’m most miserable of all, and 
hate every body, and wish I was away — away — some- 
where a thousand miles ofi*.” 

“ Would you like to go a long way off, Bessy ?” 

“ I don’t know what I- should like. I don’t think I 
should like any thing but to die. And I shall never die. 
Why, look here ! Did you ever see such arms ? and I 
never had an ailment in my life.” 

“You don’t certainly look much hke dying, Bessy; 
and I should think, in your place, it would be more nat- 
ural, as well as pleasanter, to think about living.” 

“ Pleasanter ! What do you mean ? What can there 
be pleasant to me ? Oh, Mary ! you are mocking me, and 
I didn’t come here to be mocked.” 

“Indeed, I am not mocking you, Bessy. You are one 
of the last persons I should think of mocking.” 

“ Why so ?” 

“ Because I believe you are very unhappy.” 

“ Oh, Mary — Mary — you don’t know — you never can 
know how miserable lam!” 

As Bessy said this she fell upon her knees at Mary’s 
feet, and, burying her face in her lap, burst into such an 
agony of weeping that her tears seemed more like a flood 
of passion than the natural overflow of any common grief. 
Mary scarcely knew how to deal with such an outburst 
of uncontrolled emotion ; only that nature has given to 
some women — and she was one — a sort of instinct which 
enables them to show feeling without speaking it. And 
thus it was that with her gentle, motherly hands she ^ 
stroked that noble head, and softly replaced the heavy 
locks of disheveled hair, letting the poor sufierer weep 
on, until the tide of sorrow became exhausted by its own 
violence. 


168 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


So by degrees the two women were able to converse 
more collectedly together, though Bessy still remained 
upon her knees, with her arms resting upon Mary’s lap, 
at first talking strangely and wildly, more like a mad 
woman — as, indeed, she looked — than a rational creature. 
But Mary was no longer at a loss how to deal with her. 
Silence, coldness, and suspicion were the only things 
Mary could not meet with cordiahty. They chilled her 
looks, and paralyzed her speech. But now the flood- 
gates were opened, the barriers removed. She could 
say any thing now ; and long, and very intimate, and 
confiding was the intercourse that followed. 

The fact was, that Bessy’s naturally warm, but alto- 
gether undisciplined heart had, for some time, been al- 
most bursting with gratitude to Mary for the part she 
had acted toward her cousin. Nothing in the whole 
range of human kindness could have afiected the poor 
girl so deeply as this. It was so unlooked for, too ; for, 
with the knowledge of Mary being a Methodist, she had 
associated the idea of spiritual pride, and all manner of 
uncharitableness toward persons less holy than herself. 
So that, in addition to the feehng of jealousy, and the 
sense of wrong with which Bessy had regarded the re- 
moval of William and his wife to Forest Farm, there was 
added the hatred of Mary’s religious profession, which 
Bessy regarded as no better than hypocrisy, and the 
dread continually upon her mind of some sanctimonious 
preaching to herself, on the ground not only of her per- 
verse attachment to a reprobate lover, but also on that 
of her own idle and worthless fife. 

Nothing could, therefore, exceed the astonishment of 
Bessy, when first told by her cousin of Mary’s consider- 
ate and gentle kindness toward himself— of her endeavors 
to save him, too ; for that, after all, was the point nearest 
Bessy’s heart. She also, poor girl, in her strangely ig- 


FOREST FARM. 


169 


norant and untaught way, had tried that too — tried, and 
still failed, in consequence, she fancied, of knowing so lit- 
tle herself, and believing so little, that she found it impos- 
sible to suggest any ground of hope of sufficient weight 
to influence the conduct of a vacillating and despairing 
man. Lately, indeed, Bessy had given up altogether. 
She had lost all hope herself ; and with all her strong 
feelings locked within her breast, and her capability of 
action and passion totally without exercise, she had been 
at times, as she now described herself, on the very verge 
of madness, though outwardly so quiet that, to the com- 
mon minds by which she was surrounded, her conduct 
and appearance suggested nothing but sullenness, or, at 
best, an indolence which was not unfrequently made the 
subject of jocular remark. 

In a rude and defiant manner Bessy had learned to 
throw back these taunts, or to meet them with a sullen 
and haughty look ; and so little was known of her be- 
sides this, so seldom were the best elements of her char- 
acter ever called forth, that few people loved, and none 
pitied her. Large, strongly-built women like Bessy, in- 
deed, seldom are pitied ; yet who shall tell what those 
vast capabilities of enjoying and sufiering may be com- 
pelled to endure in the way of pain which never can be 
told? 

While Mary listened to the outpouring of a heart so 
full of wild and strong emotion, yet so totally ungovern- 
ed, she grew almost frightened at the spectacle of so much 
force of character unrestrained by any consistently right 
principle, and scarcely, indeed, amenable to any law. It 
was almost like the seething of some great caldron, 
Mary thought, in which all passions and all feelings 
blended without assortment or distinction. And then 
to think that to a woman’s form belonged all this! — 
that a woman’s beauty, too, in the fresh glow of early 
H 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


110 

youth, was the fair mantle by which this smouldering 
fire had been so long concealed! Well indeed was it 
for Mary that the habit of her mind was one of such fre- 
quent prayer, that scarcely did a hope or a fear present 
itself — scarcely even a cheering or a gloomy thought, and 
still less any of those appalling mysteries of our being 
which have perplexed the deepest thinkers — but her bur- 
den — ^for there is a burden of joy as well as sorrow — was 
immediately brought to where old Pilgrim brought his ; 
and there, also, she was able to leave it. 

As the evening deepened into night, and still the mas- 
ter of the house had not returned, Bessy, whose thoughts 
had been to some extent forced into this channel, jier- 
suaded her mother to retire to rest, leaving only a man- 
servant at the kitchen fire, and assuring her that she and 
Mary would keep watch, and see that her father was 
properly attended to. And these arrangements being 
satisfactorily made, she and Mary sat down again to pur- 
sue their conversation, though with less earnestness than 
before, the attention of both being divided between that, 
and any sound which might indicate the return of him 
for whom they now waited with an anxiety which ev- 
ery moment increased. 

“I should not think so much about his being late,” 
said Bessy, “ on such a fine night as this,” after she had 
been to the window to listen, and closed it again without 
hearing any thing but the distant barking of a dog, “ if 
it was not for that habit of his that grows upon him, so 
that I declare I am quite frightened sometimes, thinking 
he will fall ofi* his horse, and be found perhaps dead in a 
ditch.” 

“ What can he be doing,” said Mary, “ so late as this ?” 

“Why, you see,” replied Bessy, “it’s Whinston fair, 
and there’s old Robinson, and a lot of them — they get 
together at the King’s Arms, and they don’t know how 


FOREST FARM. 


171 


time passes. I can’t tell how it is, Mary — can you ex- 
plain it ? — how it is that drinking is so much more wick- 
ed in one person than another? Why, here’s a set of 
those farmers — respectable men, people call them — they 
sit together drinking, week after week, until they don’t 
know how they get home, whether it’s on horseback or 
on foot, on their heads or their heels. And yet nobody 
seems to think a bit the worse of them ; while yon poor 
fellow that has neither house nor home, nor wife, nor sis- 
ter, to make him welcome, must be branded with shame, 
and called a vagabond, and never trusted with a farthing 
of his own ! Mary, I can’t understand — for the life of 
me I can’t understand — what governs the world, nor how 
it is governed.” 

Mary was preparing to make the best reply she could, 
when both started up at the sound of a horse coming 
rapidly, but with uncertain pace, along the road. They 
both knew at once, by the manner in which it came, that 
the horse was without a rider; and they each looked 
aghast in the other’s face, as if to find something there 
which might dispel their fears. 

Mary was the first to rush out, and there she saw the 
horse with broken bridle, and saddle slightly displaced, 
making its way to the stable, though not in its usual 
manner, but tossing its head, and looking from side to 
side, as if conscious that something extraordinary had 
taken place. It was a clear moonlight night, and they 
saw all this as distinctly as if it had been day. 

“We must go,” said Mary, turning hastily back into 
the house — “ you and I must go and see if we can find 
him.” 

Shuddering and breathless, Bessy seized Mary’s arm. 
She could not speak, and seemed unable to move. 

“ Don’t hold me,” said Mary ; “ don’t stand trembling 
there. We must both go, for you know you are very 


172 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


strong. Call Ben, will you, but softly and gently ? Don’t 
wake mother if you can help it, and I’ll tell the man to 
get the cart ready, and come after us.” 

Bessy did as she was bid, but, beyond the directions 
she received, was so perfectly helpless that Mary had to 
snatch up a bonnet for her, and wrap her in a shawl, and 
almost drag her out of the house. Nothing on her part 
was wanting, however. With perfect outward compos- 
ure she had secured what she thought likely to be useful, 
such as plenty of linen in case of hurt, and such restora- 
tives as came first to hand ; while Bessy had stood by 
with her teeth chattering so loud as to be heard, and with 
that quivering of the limbs, and leaping of the fingers, 
which render them perfectly useless when any thing ef- 
fective has to be done. 

Come, Bessy,” said Mary, trying to rouse her, “ you 
must not go on in that way. Think of helping — that’s 
all we’ve got to do.” 

Bessy walked on as fast as she could in silence. At 
last she began in a sort of whisper, as one does when 
there is any thing like death to be feared. 

“ Suppose, Mary, we should find him dead !” 

“ I don’t think we shall,” replied Mary; “ but we may 
find him very much hurt, and then you know we shall 
have to lift him into the cart ; that is what I want you 
for so much. So do try, Bessy, and master yourself a 
little more, or you will be of no use whatever.” 

On they walked after this, silent again, until they 
reached the outskirts of the wood, through which there 
was a bridle-path, frequented by horsemen, as well as 
foot-passengers, because it was a little more direct than 
the road. 

“Now, Bessy,” said Mary, without a moment’s hesi- 
tation, “ you keep the road, and I’ll go by the wood.” 

“ You don’t mean to go there alone,” said Bessy. 


FOEEST FAEM. 


173 


“ Yes, I do,” replied Mary. “ I don’t mind the wood 
at all. The road is open and light for you, and we shall 
be within call.” 

“ You can not be going into that wood by yourself,” 
exclaimed Bessy ; “all among the dark trees, and close 
by that black pond ?” 

“Never mind,” said Mary. “What is there to fear, 
except that we should waste time, and so lose the chance 
of helping him ?” 

“ But, Mary,” said Bessy, still holding by her dress, 
“ you don’t know what it is to feel as I do. I’ve had 
such hard thoughts about him ; and he’s my own father 
after all.” 

“ Well, Bessy, don’t let that prevent you helping him. 
Now is the very time to do your duty to him in the 
best and kindest way, if you never did it before. It is 
right for me to do all I can for him ; but it is doubly 
right for you. So go quickly, but quietly, on your way, 
and pray to God all the time — never mind how — pray 
earnestly, not in words only, but right down in the bot- 
tom of your heart, as you never prayed in all your life 
before.” 

Mary sprang across a shallow brook which separated 
the road from the entrance to the wood, almost before 
she had uttered these words, and was immediately lost 
sight of among the trees. Bessy could not refuse to fol- 
low the course which had been pointed out to her ; but 
whether it was only in pursuing the public road, or 
whether it was also in those appeals for mercy and as- 
sistance which were so strange, both to her heart and to 
her lips, was never known except to herself. 

The wood was very dark and lonely, with here and 
there mysterious gleams of moonlight shooting through 
the trees, making their shadows look more black and 
heavy, shaping out at intervals some giant form in their 


174 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


huge white trunks, or some fiendish monster in their 
twisted boughs. But Mary had no thoughts to spare 
for such imaginary terrors. There was one great dread 
upon her soul which swallowed up all others — it was 
lest death should have actually stilled that unrepentant 
heart, and sealed those unholy lips forever. Much as 
she had tried to conceal her own dismay from her com- 
panion, there were thoughts confined to her own breast 
almost too weighty and momentous to be borne. But 
they were of a nature to make her so indifierent to the 
less important things around her, that she could ever 
afterward understand, from her own experience on that 
occasion, how delicate women can go by night to search 
for their wounded or their slain upon the battle-field 
without fear. One thought, and one alone, with its un- 
avoidable accompaniments, so filled her mind that she 
was in danger of overlooking what she was still most 
anxious to discover. 

At length, on coming to a more open space in the 
wood, Mary was able to see by the moonlight some re- 
cent footprints of a horse not having gone straightfor- 
ward in its way, but rather trampling about, as if uncer- 
tain what to do. Her heart beat violently as she looked 
about her here ; but nothing more was to be seen, and 
she entered again upon the narrow path, which became 
so thickly overshadowed, that she had to examine very 
carefully on both sides, lest any thing should escape her 
observation. While looking about in this manner, Mary 
stumbled over something. It was only a broken bough, 
but near it was a hat. How she felt that the crisis was 
at hand. She called, but no answer came. She listened 
in the hope of catching some sound, but in vain. “ It 
must be very near.” How soon we begin to speak of 
it! Yes, truly— that was the white shirt, torn at the 
'bosom by the bough which had been broken ofi*; and 


FOREST FARM. 


175 


Mary had nearly passed it unconsciously, for the old 
man had fallen on one side of the path, and lay so com- 
pletely in the shadow, that only the most careful search- 
er could have recognized a human form in that uncertain 
light. 

Mary’s first thought was to call to Bessy, who could 
not be far distant, because, at this part of the way, the 
road and the path ran almost parallel ; but her second 
and stronger impulse was to ascertain whether life was 
really extinct; and for this purpose she stooped down, 
and listened, and felt, until hope revived ; for there was 
evident proof that, though stunned and insensible, that 
helpless form was still living. 

Springing to her feet, Mary now called loudly for 
Bessy to come to her, adding some words of comfort 
and assurance; and presently she heard a crackling 
among the bushes, -which convinced her that Bessy had 
heard, and was at hand. 

Both now applied themselves to ascertain, if possible, 
what was the nature of the injury sustained; but the 
condition of the old man previous to his fall rendered all 
such examination fruitless ; and they next endeavored 
to devise the best means of getting him conveyed to the 
cart, which they heard already on the road, though at a 
considerable distance. 

Bessy was all energy and help now. She had a defi- 
nite purpose now in what she did ; and, when that was 
the case, she was the very person to work, and to work 
as few women could. Recollecting that the wood was 
entered by a small gate through which no carriage could 
pass, Bessy proposed to carry her father to that spot, de- 
claring she could do so without the least assistance. 
Mary would not allow her to do this; but between 
them they so managed their melancholy task that by the 
time the cart arrived they were ready with their heavy 


176 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


burden, which, with the assistance of Benjamin and the 
man-servant, was placed upon the straw, and safely con- 
veyed to the house. 

Here there was much to be done by the women, espe- 
cially in the absence of William Ashton ; and the whole 
remainder of that night was passed with scarcely any in- 
terchange of individual feeling, so intent was every one 
upon the solemn and important duties which had to be 
performed. 


CHAPTER VH. 

When William Ashton reached home the following 
day he received the intelligence of his father’s accident 
in a manner which indicated that he was, if possible, 
more appalled than distressed. He had neither the nat- 
ural energy nor the tendency to hope which character- 
ized his wife, but was liable, under any great calamity, 
to sit down in despondency, concluding that, as all things 
were against him, it could be of no use struggling to op- 
pose his fate. 

On the present occasion this tendency of William’s 
seemed to overpower every effort, as well as every hope. 
INTaturally kind and feeling toward those with whom he 
was closely associated, w^hether by habit or by relation- 
ship, he became distressed beyond measure at the spec- 
tacle of his father’s sufferings, which were, indeed, such 
as might have awakened sympathy in a more indifferent 
beholder. 

It had been supposed, at first, that the senses of the 
old man were only stunned, not materially injured ; and, 
so far as the brain was concerned, this proved to be the 
case. But on further examination it was discovered 
that, in addition to other injuries received by the fall, 
there was the complicated fracture of a limb in a part 


FOREST FARM. 


177 


which rendered the consequences to be apprehended ex- 
tremely serious. With the return of sensibility, the suf- 
ferings occasioned by this fracture were extreme, as well 
as from the difficult setting, which had to be delayed un- 
til additional surgical help could be obtained. During 
the most painful scenes William was unable to remain 
in the room with his father ; and Mary alone took the 
entire duty of attending upon the surgeons, and receiv- 
ing their instructions how to manage the patient when 
they were gone. 

There are persons who, even when they do not inspire 
affection, command confidence. Mary was eminently 
one of these ; and now her name was to be heard all 
over the house, coupled with such expressions as “ ask 
Mary,” or “ tell Mary,” or more frequently still, “ Mary 
will do it.” And so she did a thousand painful duties 
which others shrank from ; for the patient was not the 
most amiable, and it was sometimes frightful to be in 
the room with him, and to hear his strange, rambling, 
unhappy talk, knowing, as every one did, that he was a 
man who had no religious consolation whatever — who 
had nothing to make life endurable, when deprived of 
the few groveling enjoyments in which he had lately ap- 
peared to be endeavoring to drown all serious thought. 

Women, as a general rule, sustain any continued trial 
to their feelings better than men ; and William Ashton 
declared it was impossible for him to endure being in 
the room with his father. He was no doubt troubled, 
as his sister had been, with the remembrance of hard 
thoughts which he had cherished against him, and which 
now rose up in strange and painful contrast with the 
pity which his present circumstances called forth. Bes- 
sy was equally at a loss what to do, though she often 
asked Mary to tell her of some service which she might 
perform ; but, failing in these attempts, she betook her- 
H 2 


178 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


self to that which was, perhaps, the kindest service she 
could render — taking the children almost entirely under 
her care. 

Poor Mrs. Ashton could scarcely claim any part in 
the duties now to he discharged. She had so long act- 
ed upon the principle of not meddling, that she had al- 
most ceased to have any use in the world ; and the fear 
of her husband, which had grown upon her since his 
habits and character had altered so much for the worse, 
rendered the bare idea of being left alone with him now, 
in his pain and his misery, insupportable. She therefore 
only walked in and out of the room at intervals, con- 
cealing herself generally behind the curtains of the bed, 
where she often heard, to her dismay, those angry tones 
from which she always shrank with terror, and not the 
less so now that there was a certain indescribable kind 
of awe attaching to her husband’s condition. 

What would the world do without such women as 
Mary Ashton ? What, indeed, would the family at For- 
est Farm have done without her ? Nor was it only her 
clever hand and willing mind that rendered her so use- 
ful. She was so perfectly self-governed, and outwardly 
so calm, that nothing seemed to be overlooked or for- 
gotten by her. All over the house her quick percep- 
tions appeared to extend, and her spirit to pervade every 
department. Those who beheld her thus, active and con- 
siderate, taking note of the minutest details, and even 
looking in advance upon what might be, as well as mak- 
ing sure of what was, could have formed little idea of 
the true state of her mind as to its inner feelings, and 
least of all would have supposed that one deep-seated 
and paramount desire was continually present with her, 
throwing into comparative insignificance all other mat- 
ters in which she was concerned. Yet so it was ; and 
while William yielded entirely to the desponding con- 


FOKEST FARM. 


179 


victioii that things must take their course, Mary only 
prayed and hoped the more that some way might be 
opened for bringing about the one object upon which 
her heart was set with such concentrated earnestness of 
desire. 

It could be of no use vexing William now with any 
difference of opinion upon the right and the wrong of 
matters which hung upon a very doubtful life. It was 
of no use now teasing him with arguments which she 
had already tried so often in vain. More than ever Mary 
saw that her heart was to be quiet, and to wait. The 
doctors assured her that at present all was going on well 
with their patient. She had no reason to suppose that 
death must necessarily be the result of this accident; 
rather, perhaps, a lingering illness, and long confinement, 
during which some happy change might take place ; and, 
at all events, she was absolutely compelled to wait, for 
the way or the means of bringing about what she most 
desired was at present completely hid from her view. 

The line of demarkation which separates doing good 
from ofilcious meddling is so fine, that there is no won- 
der timid and cautious spirits shrink from attempting 
such a path. It needs, in fact, more real heroism in 
many cases to venture to do good than to storm a cita- 
del or to command a hostile fleet. It needs this hero- 
ism, because the venture to the individual is so great. 
If the warrior falls, he falls with glory ; but if, in at- 
tempting to do good, we only incur the odium of offi- 
cious meddling, nothing can save us from the obloquy 
which friends no less than enemies are always prepared 
to heap upon us. 

Mary Ashton would have felt this venture in all its 
force, had she not been one of those who habitually rely 
upon help beyond themselves in whatever they under- 
take of any serious importance ; and had she not also 


180 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


been supported by that belief, under which so many 
great as well as good actions have been performed, that 
it was laid upon her as an especial and personal duty to 
do something to bring about that act of justice from 
which her purpose was never diverted, and in view of 
which her spirit never quailed. 

If throughout the household Mary was a person of the 
utmost importance, she was especially so to the patient 
on his bed of pain. He was often angry with her — blamed 
her for much that vexed and annoyed him — spoke to 
her at times in language that was any thing but respect- 
ful or kind ; but still he must have her near him. He 
would have no other hand than Mary’s to dress his 
wounds or even to touch him ; and no change must be 
made, nor any thing of importance done, except by Ma- 
ry’s order, and under her immediate inspection. 

Mary began very naturally to wonder how long this 
would last, or rather how long her strength would hold 
out — for her attendance was required for the night as 
well as the day — when one morning a visitor was an- 
nounced whose presence seemed not unlikely to change 
the whole aspect of affairs in the sick-room. 

This visitor was Peter Ashton, who came as soon as 
he had heard of the accident, and who no sooner entered 
the house than, with tones of compassion almost amount- 
ing to tenderness, he began to bemoan the condition of 
the family, and that of his uncle in particular. 

For the first time since the accident, Mary obtained, 
on this occasion, some hours of unbroken rest. She had 
previously sent for the nurse, Mrs. Mason, whose serv- 
ices she hoped might, in time, be rendered acceptable to 
the patient ; and as Peter had expressed a desire to be 
alone with his uncle, she gladly relinquished her post of 
duty, which could have been nothing but painful and 
humiliating to her while he was there — such was the re- 


FOREST FARM. 


181 


pugnance, Such almost the loathing with which his char- 
acter and his manners affected her. William, too, was in- 
dignant at the liberty, as he considered it, which his cous- 
in was taking ; and in this spirit he walked into the room 
two or three times himself, intending to indicate that he 
'was the person who had the greatest right to be there. 
His report on these occasions was to the effect that Pe- 
ter was teasing the old man with papers and parchments, 
and that he had a pen and ink beside him, which he did 
not doubt but he had been making some bad use of. 
Indeed, he saw, by the flush on his father’s face, that he 
had been too much excited in some way or other ; and 
it was his firm belief that, if Peter was not got away, he 
would be the death of him. 

Mary was quite of the same opinion, and she was glad 
when a visit from the doctor put an end to this prolong- 
ed interview, from which Peter came down smiling, and 
asking for his cousin Mary. 

Mary went with him alone into a private room, for 
she also had something to say to him. At first she had 
considered it best to wait for him to begin ; but what- 
ever he might have to say was introduced with so much 
circumlocution that Mary, who was pressed for time, lost 
patience, and plunged at once in medias res. 

“I have wanted very much to see you,” she said, “be- 
cause I think Mr. Ashton has been in the habit of con- 
fiding in you more than any one else respecting his j)e- 
cuniary affairs.” 

“Yes,” said Peter, “he did me the honor of confiding 
in me respecting the drawing up of his will, of which I 
hold in my hand a copy at this moment.” 

“ And I hold in my hand a copy,” said Mary, “ of how 
that will was made.” 

“ Indeed !” said Peter, not in the least disconcerted, 
but as if rather pleasantly interested, and a little curious. 


182 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


Mary opened the paper which contained Mrs. Mason’s 
statement, and began to read it aloud. As she did so 
Peter leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and re- 
garded her with an amused kind of smile, which now and 
then swelled into a little chuckling laugh, accompanied 
by such expressions as “ Dear me ! How exceedingly 
curious ! Really I should scarcely have thought that 
woman could have expressed herself so well !” All which 
Mary bore with what steadiness of voice and temper she 
could command, continuing to read straight forward to 
the end, and then looking the man full in the face. 

“Well, cousin?” said Peter, when she had finished. 

“ Well, Peter Ashton ?” said Mary. 

The lawyer laughed. 

“ It is really too absurd !” he exclaimed. “ You must 
forgive me, cousin ; but upon my word it is impossible 
to be grave. You surely do not attach any importance 
to that document ?” 

“ I attach importance to it,” replied Mary, “ because I 
believe it to be true. What I want to know is, wheth- 
er, in the face of such truth, you will continue to main- 
tain the unjust and iniquitous position which you have 
assumed ?” 

“Just allow me to glance over that paper again, wiU 
you ?” said Peter, extending his hand. 

“ Willingly,” said Mary, giving it to him. “ This is 
only a copy. You can take it with you. I have the 
original in my own possession.” 

In spite of himself, Peter looked vexed. He found it 
was no play dealing with such a woman as Mary. So 
he spoke in a more business-like manner, though at the 
same time with less civility than before. 

“ Come, come,” said he, “ this is downright nonsense 
altogether. We had better be serious, and look at this 
case in its true light. I tell you, cousin, that paper is of 


FOREST FARM. 


183 


no more use, and would serve you no more in a court of 
justice, than this strip which I hold in my hand after I 
had torn it into a thousand shreds.” 

“ That may be,” said Mary, “ as things are at present. 
But suppose Mr. Ashton should live a few years, or even 
months longer, and make another will ?” 

Peter’s brow fell, but he instantly recovered himself. 

“ He can’t do that,” said he. “ He can never do that.” 

“ Why not ?” asked Mary. 

“ Because,” he answered, “ I have his promise under a 
solemn oath.” 

“ Yes,” said Mary, “ you have his promise both to be- 
queath this property to you at his death, and to pay you 
so much a year so long as he holds it. But what can 
that promise do for you, except to frighten him into 
keeping it ? I therefore tell you that you can not show 
that promise in any court of law. You dare not show it 
among honorable men. You would not, for your own 
credit’s sake, be known to have acted so base a part as 
to have wrung such a promise from any one.” 

“ That remains to be seen,” said Peter. “ However, 
leaving that out of the question, do you not see that it 
would be equally base in you to frighten the man, now 
on his death-bed, into leaving the farm to your hus- 
band ?” 

“ Leave that to me,” said Mary. 

“ I don’t know that I shall leave it,” exclaimed Peter, 
now thoroughly irritated. “I don’t know that I shall 
not come and remain here myself, to see that justice is 
done.” 

“ I don’t think you will,” said Mary, “ so long as there 
are those in the house who have a right to prevent 
you.” 

Peter had now lost all command over his temper ; and 
if any thing had been wanting on his part to convince 


184 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


Mary what his real character was, the conclusion of this 
interview would have been sufficient. Having said all 
that she wished, Mary left him to his fury, and soon had 
the satisfaction of hearing his steps retreating from the 
house. After he had mounted his horse, however, he 
spoke with his accustomed calmness to the doctor, who 
was just then leaving; and Mary heard from an open 
window that the doctor thought his patient not quite so 
well. A little more feverish, restless, and altogether less 
comfortable. “ However,” he added, “ quiet may do a 
great deal for him, and after to-night we shall see.” 

Mary could not help thinking that Peter looked ex- 
tremely well satisfied with this information. The impres- 
sion of* that day he knew to have been favorable to his 
own purposes ; but he could not feel sure of what might 
be done to efface it, should the old man’s life be prolong- 
ed, as Mary had suggested, through after years, especial- 
ly with a woman like her always near him. What could 
he have been about, he asked himself as he rode home, 
to let the old man bring those people to the farm ? To 
be sure he was muddling every thing away — ruining the 
place entirely ; and William was likely to manage it well 
for his own interests. But that woman ! If he had en- 
tertained the least idea of the sort of woman Mary was, 
he would have turned farmer himself rather than have 
suffered her to come meddling there. 

Mary had profited so much by the rest obtained dur- 
ing Peter’s visit, that she was ready with renewed 
strength to take her watch for the following night ; and 
she seated herself by a small table in the sick-room with 
peculiar satisfaction, derived from the idea that every 
one else in the house would enjoy the comfort of un- 
broken repose uhtil the dawning of another day. 

The whole family had retired to their separate apart- 
ments earlier than usual ; and while a general stillness 


FOREST FARM. 


185 


reigned around, Mary took' out her little pocket Bible, 
and began to read to herself. She had not been long en- 
gaged in this manner when the patient suddenly started 
from an uneasy sleep, and, dashing back the curtain of 
the bed, called out, “ Who’s there ?” 

“ I am here,” said Mary, going up to the head of the 
bed. 

“ That’s right,” said the patient ; “ but where is he ?” 

“ Who ?” asked Mary. 

“ Why, Peter, to be sure.” 

“ Oh ! he went away a long time ago.” 

“ Are you sure ?” 

“ Yes, quite sure. I saw him mount his horse and ride 
out of the yard.” 

“ Thank God !” exclaimed the old man, as his head 
sank back on the pillow. “ He’ll be the death of me, 
Mary, if you let him come here again.” 

“ I don’t think he is likely to come again,” said Mary. 
“ But why should you let him disturb you so ?” 

“ Let him !” exclaimed the old man again. “ I should 
like to know how I am to help myself, seeing all that has 
passed.” 

“I think you could help yourself, though,” observed 
Mary. 

“No, no,” said the old man, despondingly ; “there’s 
no help for me, either in this world or the next.” 

“ But you don’t think so well of Peter, do you, father, 
that you wish to be connected with him ?” 

“ Think well of him ! Who does think well of him, I 
wonder? Pve wished hfe horse would fall with him a 
hundred times, and break that stubborn neck of his.” 

“ Hush ! That’s not the way to get out of the diffi- 
culty. You can only make bad worse by wishing such 
wishes as that.” 

“Pll tell you what, Mary — come closer — don’t let 


186 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


any body hear — things are 'so bad, they can’t be made 
worse.” 

“ Oh, father ! and we don’t know but this hurt of your 
leg may take a bad turn, and you are an old man ; and 
whether it does or not, you can not be very much longer 
for this world.” 

“ Ay, that’s the way you Methodists are always talk- 
ing. I hate such cant. Let’s have a bit of common 
sense.” 

“Well, then, I think the common sense of the case is 
this — that you, a man, your own master, at liberty to 
think and act for yourself, have got into the clutches of 
another man not half your age, who turns and twists you 
about just as he likes ; and that you want to get out of 
this bondage, and may get out if you like.” 

“ No, I can’t, Mary.” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ Because he has my promise signed and sealed — ^my 
solemn oath.” 

“ It is sometimes more wicked to keep a promise than 
to break it.” 

“ Is that your religion, Mary ? I always believed your 
Methodists were a pack of hypocrites ; but I had thought 
better things of yow.” 

“ Look here, father ; this is what I mean. It is a very 
bad thing to break a promise ; but if the promise is a 
bad one, likely to injure any body, we have in that case 
only a choice of two evils, and are plunged into evil so 
deeply, that we can not, if we would, get clear out. So 
in that case we ought, I think, to choose the least evil 
of the two, and especially that which hurts only our- 
selves.” 

“ Ah ! that’s all fine talking ; but I don’t understand a 
bit of it. I only know that fellow Peter holds a promise 
of mine, written out in my own handwriting, and signed 


FOEEST FAEM. 187 

with my own name ; and I know he’ll keep me to what 
I’ve promised, too.” 

“But just think a little bit, father, and I’ll try to put 
the matter in a clearer light. Suppose a man got into 
bad company — got linked in with thieves and murderers, 
and they wanted to kill and rob somebody, and per- 
suaded him into promising that, on a certain night, he 
would waylay this person and murder him. Well, be- 
fore that time, he begins to see the wickedness of the 
act, and the wickedness of the people who have stirred 
him up to do it. Do you think he is still bound to com- 
mit the murder because he has promised to do so ?” 

“ hTo, certainly. But then you have put such a strong 
case. Murder, you know, is such a horrid, brutal thing.” 

“We were speaking of the wro7ig ; and, though it 
may be more brutal, I don’t see how it is more wrong 
to take away a person’s life than to take away his means 
of living, when you have no right to touch either. 
Wrong is wrong, you know, all through the world, for 
this life and the next, for time and for eternity ; and it’s 
a dreadful thing to die, with a wrong act persisted in, 
upon your conscience.” 

“ You talk so strangely. I don’t like to be talked to 
in that way, Mary. And besides, I’m so ill — so very, 
very ill.” 

“ I know you are, father ; and it is partly on that ac- 
count that I feel so strongly. I can not shut my eyes to 
the possibility — nay, the probability — that you may nev- 
er rise up from that bed again. You may die there, you 
know ; and if that wound should take a bad turn, you 
may die very soon.” 

The old man could only groan, and toss his head un- 
easily from side to side. Mary went on — 

“ I don’t like to make you uncomfortable, because I 
know you have so much to sutfer. But indeed, if you 


188 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


will believe me, I only want to make your sufferings less 
in the world to come — that world we must all enter 
upon, whether we desire to do so or not. Time is short 
here, you know. Whatever we suffer here will soon be 
over. But to go away into the darkness forever — never 
to see the light of God’s countenance, nor to hear any 
thing but the hateful words of the wicked, forever and 
forever ! Oh, father ! you must think of these things, 
indeed you must ; for you are an old man, and will be 
soon called away, whether you recover from this acci- 
dent or not.” 

“ But the doctors didn’t tell me I should die, Mary.” 

“ No, nor I don’t say so much as that. You may not 
die now. I see no reason why you should. I hope you 
will live to lead a better and a happier life. I don’t 
think you have been very happy of late. Have you, fa- 
ther?” 

“You know I haven’t, Mary. What’s the use of ask- 
ing me that? No, nor I never shall be — not as you 
mean by happiness.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Because I’m too far gone in the filthy mire — I’ve got 
entangled in it, head, heart, and hand. I’m bound up to 
it, as it were.” 

“ And yet you hate it.” 

“ I hate it so that it makes me hate every thing else, 
and every body.” 

“Yet I think you once had a kind heart, father — I 
think you once loved your children — nay, I think you 
once loved God.” 

“ I did once, Mary. I remember a time — ” 

The old man could say no more. His voice broke 
down, and he turned his face to the wall. 

“ Don’t put away the remembrance of that time,” said 
Mary. “Let us go back to it. When was it? I am 


FOREST FARM. 


189 


sure it was a happier time than you have known since. 
I am sure the sun was brighter to you then — the fields 
were greener — the face of man more welcome — your 
home more smiling, and your own heart more at peace 
with all the world. Wouldn’t you like to get those feel- 
ings back again, father ?” 

“ They never can be got back again, Mary — never — 
never.” 

“ Yes, but they can, and better still — -just so much bet- 
ter as you are nearer the journey’s end, and so less like- 
ly to be troubled with temptations to go back — so near, 
indeed, that you may look right up into the streets of the 
celestial city, where angels will come to meet you, and 
conduct you into the presence of the Lord, to sit down 
at his right hand, and to go no more out forever. I am 
not dreaming — indeed I am not. It is all true — true as 
this blessed Book. We none of us shall get to heaven 
for never having sinned, but by rej^enting of our sins ; 
and that is what the best among us has to do before he 
can be saved ?” 

“ And if I should repent, what then ?” 

“ The next thing to leaving off doing wrong is to be- 
gin to do right. You know the story of one Saul of Tar- 
sus — how he was struck down — arrested all at once in 
as bold a course as ever man could take in the wrong di- 
rection — and as strong a man, too ; and how he rose up 
like a man, and said, ‘ Lord, what wouldst thou have me 
to do ?’ He didn’t stop to talk about the men he was 
linked in with. He didn’t say, ‘ I have promised such a 
one or, ‘ Such another expects me to do so and so 
and yet, no doubt, it was so with him. But he felt there 
was a hand, stronger than any man’s, laid upon him ; 
and that hand he must be guided by, come what would.” 

“But he was a strong man, Mary ; and I am weak — so 
very weak.” 


190 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


“ Yes, father, but he had been strong in doing wrong, 
and that made it so much more difficult for him to begin 
to do right. You have been weak both in evil and in 
good ; but, so far as human help can go, I will stand by 
you, father — we will all stand by you.” 

“I’m not so sure of that. We are altogether a god- 
less family — no love among us — nothing to help one an- 
other with.” 

“ It may have been so, but better times are coming — 
I firmly believe they are, father. Let us all unite togeth- 
er, heart and hand, and better times will be sure to conie. 
Oh! I should like to see you all as happy as I know 
you might be even yet.” 

“ No, Mary ; we can never be a happy family, because 
I, who am at the head of it, have done a great wrong. 
There’s not one of them I can look in the face, and say I 
have not wronged. Take William first — I can not leave 
him this property ; and yet I know he came here expect- 
ing it to be his. And there’s Bess — poor Bess — she 
hates the sight of me, because of her cousin Tom ; and 
she knows I’ve got his rightful inheritance from him. 
No, Mary ; we can never be a happy family. You need 
not talk to me in that way.” 

“ I should not talk to you as I do, father, but that I am 
convinced this wrong — for it is a dreadful, wicked wrong 
— may all be set right.” 

“ I wonder how.” 

“ Make another will.” 

The old man started so violently, that the pain it caused 
his wound made him cry out. But he seemed to forget 
that as he fixed his eyes upon Mary’s face searchingly, 
and asked her again what she could mean. 

“I mean,” she answered, “that so long as you have 
life, and the possession of your reason, you can make a 
just will, which the present one has never been.” 


FOEEST FAEM. 


191 


“Another will!” he repeated, as if unable to compre- 
hend the idea. 

“Yes,” Mary said. “You know people often alter 
their wills. There are cases in which they have to be 
altered quite at the last. Only it is always better to do 
so while the head is clear, and there can be no suspicion 
of incompetency. We never know what may happen in 
a single day, and especially in illness.” 

“ But,” said the old man, with the greatest perplexity 
still written on his countenance, “ Ae has a copy.” 

“ That is nothing,” replied Mary. “ That copy bears 
one date, but your right wdll will bear a later ; and the 
circumstances under which that will was made are so 
suspicious that I am sure, if made public, they would go 
far to render it void.” 

“Yes; but who knows that?” 

“ I know it.” 

“You!” 

“ The nurse, Mrs. Mason, told me all about it.” 

“ Ay, she was about here at the time, I remember.” 

“ She has even written out a clear and exact account 
of every thing ; and that we should be able to show, if 
the later will should be disputed after your death.” 

“ You bewilder me, Mary. I can not tell what all this 
means.” 

“ It means that you have been in bad hands, and that 
the way is opening for you to get out.” 

“And suppose I should get out, what sort of a will 
could I make to set things on a better footing ?” 

“ What ought to have been made by your brother — 
what in the course of nature, and even of law, would 
have taken place if Peter had never interfered.” 

“ Why, in that case, I suppose this property would 
have gone to his brother Tom. You can never wish 
that, surely ?” 


192 


CHAPTERS OX WIVES. 


“Yes, I do.” 

“How so?” 

“ Because it is simply right.” 

“ Right ! Is it right that a reprobate like him should 
have it put into his power to be more riotous and waste- 
ful than he is now ?” 

“ That is his affair, not ours. If his father had been 
left entirely to himself in this affair — if Peter had had no 
hand in it — if, besides this, the poor man had been quite 
himself, I would never have lifted a finger in the matter, 
scarcely have felt a wish about it. It would have been 
right then for him to do what he liked with his own. 
But you know what went before — you know all about 
Peter and his schemes — you know the wicked compact 
you entered into with him — and you must know that the 
only way to prevent further wickedness, and misery that 
none of us can see the end of, is for you to go straight 
back again to the beginning of this affair, and make all 
right again, as you have the power to do now, but may 
not have it long.” 

“ I declare, Mary, I can not understand you. You are 
different from any woman I ever saw in my life before. 
Why, look here — all the while that you are arguing with 
me in this way, you are going clear against your own 
husband, your children, and yourself. If you had want- 
ed me to leave the property to William, I should have 
known what it all meant. But don’t you see that Wil- 
liam would be turned adrift, without any thing, if that 
vagabond had all ?” 

“ And where, I would ask, will he be if Peter has all ? 
But it is not that at all. I desire to leave that entirely 
in the hands of God, and just to get the right thing done 
while there is the power to do it.” 

“ Have you told William what you are driving at ?” 

“ Yes, I have told him what I wished, and why I wish- 
ed it.” 


FOREST FARM. 


193 


“ And what does he say ?” 

“ Not much. I can not say that he sees exactly with 
me in some things. But he will do in time, I believe ; 
and no one can feel more strongly than he does about 
the wickedness of this compact with Peter. And now, 
father, since you see that William would not be a bit the 
worse off if the property was left to the oldest son, than 
if left to the youngest, that need not for a moment stand 
in the way.” 

‘‘ You have taken me so by surprise, Mary, that I don’t 
know what to think, nor what to do.” 

“ You are tired now, father. Suppose you try to get 
a little sleep. I am afraid you are very much tired.” 

“ I am tired, child ; but I can not sleep for all that. 
Oh, Mary — Mary ! When I was a little child there was 
a good, patient woman — only a poor woman — she that 
nursed us all — she used to come and pray with me every 
night before I w'ent to sleep. It is such a long, long 
while ago ! Am I the same person, do you think ? Is it 
possible I can be the same as that little boy that used to 
say his prayers, and sleep so soundly ?” 

“ I think you may be like a little child again,” said 
Mary, taking the old man’s feverish hand in hers. “ I 
think that is the best thing you can do — just try to be a 
little child, and to feel that the same God is watching 
over you still — the same blessed Jesus holding out his 
arms to you, as he did to the little children when he took 
them to his bosom.” 

“ Yes, but he said, ‘ Of such is the kingdom of heav- 
en.’ ” 

“ He said also, ‘ Come unto me, all ye that labor, and 
are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ ” 

I 


194 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


CHAPTER YIIL 

Although progress had now been made in some di- 
rections beyond Mary’s most sanguine expectations, she 
could not help feeling that, in others, she was far indeed 
from having arrived at the fulfillment of her wishes. So 
much, in fact, depended upon the right feeling of others, 
where there was little ground for believing that right 
feeling existed at all, that nothing but a peculiar char- 
acter of mind, allied to a peculiar faith, could have af- 
forded, under such circumstances, any amount of cheer- 
ful confidence. In herself she was painfully conscious 
that what her hopes were aiming at, and her efforts 
struggling to attain, would appear, to any one but her- 
self, so entirely like the mere vision of an excited fancy, 
that she dared not even make a confidant of her husband 
at present, but worked on without either support or 
sympathy from any human being. 

After the night already described, the old man made 
no allusion for some time to the subject which Mary had 
so earnestly forced upon his attention. She began to 
fear he had forgotten it — that his mind had become con- 
fused, so that the impression which she had been so 
anxious to make was lost ; or he might be regarding it 
altogether as a dream, too vague and groundless to be 
worth recurring to again. This was truly a discourag- 
ing conclusion ; but Mary could be quiet under discour- 
agement, and she thought it best not to be too urgent. 

While the affairs of the sick-room remained in this 
doubtful state, Mary tried what could be done in another 
quarter, and, by the assistance of the nurse, obtained an 
interview with her cousin, Thomas Ashton, which above 
aU things was necessary to the progress of her plans. 


FOEEST FAEM. 


195 


They met in Mrs. Mason’s cottage, where there could be 
no fear of interruption ; and Mary was now obliged to 
throw herself entirely upon the honorable feeling of a 
man, respecting whom there were scarcely more than 
two individuals in the world who entertained any idea 
of his being worthy of trust. 

One of these was the nurse, and she, perhaps, knew 
Thomas Ashton better than any one else, because she 
knew the good as well as the evil of his character ; and 
she always maintained firmly, that had he been more 
fairly dealt with, he would have been a wiser and a bet- 
ter man. 

But he was better, she told Mary. There was already 
a great difierence in his conduct. He had obtained em- 
ployment, and kept to it well. He had put money into 
her hands to keep for him ; and as to bad company and 
intemperance, she did not believe there was any thing 
of that kind which he had need to be ashamed of now. 

This was all hopeful and cheering; but could Mary 
really trust him ? The common selfishness of a depraved 
nature might turn her project to the worst purposes — 
even imprudence might hurry on results, and so frustrate 
all the good desired. And yet she must ascertain his 
real state of heart and mind in the matter, or it would be 
impossible to proceed. 

If Mary had felt inclined to trust her cousin before 
they met, she was still more so after looking steadily in 
his faJfe, so much was his countenance, and indeed his 
whole appearance, altered for the better. 

Yes; she was determined to trust him. Mary felt 
that at this crisis there could be no half acting. She 
must give herself entirely to what she had to do, or not 
act at all. So she said at once, — 

“ I have come for the purpose of having a long talk 
’with you, cousin — a talk about business first, for it is 


196 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


necessary that I should be acquainted with your opinion 
and feeling on two or three points. Suppose all things 
were put upon a right footing again, should you like to 
live at Forest Farm ?” 

“ No, not at all. I should have liked it once. It used 
to he the only wish of my heart. There is no spot on 
earth I could ever love as I loved that old place, where 
the memory of my mother seems to live in every nook 
and corner. But I could not live there now — if I might, 
I would not — nothing could induce me to do so.” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ Ah, Mary ! you know. You know how my character 
stands in the eyes of every body about here.” 

“ But your character may improve, and, with God’s 
blessing, I believe it will.” . 

“ I also believe it will — at least, I hope so ; but that 
must be somewhere else, a long way from here, among 
people who never heard of me except as an honorable 
and upright man.” 

“And why not here, if you had a good wife to support 
you ?” 

“No; that would make the matter worse to me. I 
should think every one was pointing at her as the wom- 
an who degraded herself by marrying a drunkard. No, 
Mary, no woman shall marry to shame in marrying me ; 
and if I am ever to become a respectable and a happy 
man, I must go away — quite out of the country, as you 
once proposed to me — perhaps to Canada. And if I can 
only keep as I am now — quite steady for a whole year — 
do you think William would help me with the means of 
getting away ? The old man will most likely be gone 
by that time, and then Bessy herself may come in for a 
share. What do you think, Mary ?” 

“I think — indeed, I feel quite sure — that William 
would help you if he could ; but there is a point besides 


FOREST FARM. 


197 


this that I want settling, for the satisfaction of my own 
mind. Suppose, Thomas, that you were actually the 
owner of Forest Farm — suppose the old man should be- 
queath it back to you, and it should thus become entirely 
your own, would you in that case prefer going away?” 

“ Decidedly — for some years at least. Character, you 
know, does not grow in a day — scarcely in a year. I 
suppose I was always.weak ; people have always told me 
so ; and I declare to you now, Mary, that I would not 
live upon that farm, among the people who have known 
me such a worthless vagabond, not for a thousand a 
year. Besides which — you must not be too hard upon 
me if I confess it — but really, Mary, I should not quite 
like to trust myself with money of my own, and a good 
house to be hospitable in, and plenty to do with, among 
the sort of fellows who would come about me then, and 
whom I know I should not have the courage to shake 
off.” 

“ I don’t know but you are right, Thomas. I think I 
should feel the same as you do, if I were in your place. 
But now I have another question to ask you. If the 
farm should be left to you, would you like William to 
manage it for you, paying you a yearly rent ?” 

“Better than any one- else a great deal. But what in 
the world are you driving at? I can not understand 
you. It’s no more likely that farm should be left to 
me, than that the sun or the moon should be. Mrs. 
Mason tells me it is intended for Peter ; but I always 
supposed, as a matter of course, that William would 
have it. Has my uncle been saying any thing about it, 
then ?” 

“ I have had a good deal of talk with him on the sub- 
ject. I don’t know yet how it will be, only I know it 
won’t be my fault if all that wicked business about the 
will is not set right at last.” 


198 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


“You astonish me, Mary, more and more. Do you 
mean to say that you are laboring with my uncle to 
get him to make another will, and to leave that proper- 
ty to me 

“I do.” 

“To me!” 

“Yes, to you, because you are the oldest son, and be- 
cause your father was wrongly dealt with when he was 
persuaded to leave the property to his brother.” 

“You mean William — your husband. You can not 
mean me !” 

“ I mean you, and no one else.” 

“ What me ! — the outcast — the reprobate — a man that 
nobody believes in — a wretch that has scarcely a roof 
under which to shelter his' head, and, more than that, 
does not deserve to have one ? And would you, a wise 
and prudent woman, run such a risk as to put this tempt- 
ation in his way ?” 

“My simple aim is to do justice, or to get it done. 
With the temptation I have nothing to do. That is be- 
tween God and your own soul. But somehow I don’t 
think — I can not think that, if this should all be brought 
about as I desire, you would quite forget the duty you 
would owe in return to the kind Providence without 
whose help we can do nothing. You would not turn 
quite away from God, would you, Thomas, with this 
great, this unexpected proof of his mercy every day be- 
fore your eyes ? Even for my sake, besides, I think you 
would hardly like that people should say how you had 
deceived and disappointed me.” 

“Is it true, Mary Ashton ? Am I dreaming ? Let 
me hold your hand, and look into your eyes. Is it true 
that you — a good woman, a religious woman, an honest- 
hearted and pure-minded woman — should be working in 
this way to get the right done to me, when you know 


FOREST FARM. 


199 


all the time that, unless I repent and become a different 
man, right will all be turned to wrong ? Is it possible 
that you can so far trust me as to do this 

“ It is true, Thomas. And now, dear cousin, let us 
enter into a little compact together this night that we 
will be true to one another.” 

Thomas Ashton stood up reverently, and with clasped 
hands he uttered a solemn vow, which was more than 
half a prayer, that, so far as God would give him strength 
to resist, he would neither touch nor taste that which 
had been his greatest bane, until Mary herself should 
absolve him from this promise. He would have said 
more, but heart and voice both failed him, and, sinking 
down upon his chair, he bowed his head upon his hands, 
and burst into tears. 

Mary rose and stood beside him. With sisterly ten- 
derness she placed one arm round his neck, and drawing 
him near her, leaned her head upon his, while she wept 
too. They were not tears of unhappiness, still less tears 
of despair, which dimmed her eyes. N^o, they were 
blessed tears; for in that close but silent communion 
there was the offering up of a contrite heart, with all its 
many imperfections and its heavy sins, where true peni- 
tence never yet was offered up in vain. 

After a long silence Mary said softly, “I must go 
now, Thomas. We understand each other now, I think. 
But I must have a plain, business-like account to give to 
William, or he will not listen to me. I may tell him, 
then — may I ? — that you seriously — no, solemnly, declare 
you would prefer not living at Forest Farm, even if it 
were yours 

“ You may.” 

“And that you would wish him to occupy it?” 

“ Decidedly.” 

“ And you would not be unreasonable, Thomas, in 


200 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


what you would ex];)ect of him as a tenant? You 
would remember the bad state in which he found the 
farm ?” 

“ Say what you like, Mary. Make your own terms. I 
don’t want any thing of William, if only he would help 
me off to Canada, and the sooner the better.” 

“ Ah ! but that is not business-like, Thomas. It might 
do for you and me, but it won’t do for William. I want 
a straightforward, rational proposal to make to him. 
What do you think of a hundred a year for five or seven 
years? Would that be sufficient?” 

“I should feel myself rich with that, in addition to 
what I could make by the labor of my own hands.” 

“You see, Thomas, I want to make good terms for my 
husband, after all. I don’t want, any more than he does, 
to have any thing done in the way of romantic generos- 
ity. I like those bargains that are as good on one side 
SLS on the other, and so are good for both. Besides 
which, you may be sure I would not do any thing to in- 
jure my husband’s interests, or to interfere with his 
rights, for any consideration in the world. It is because 
I am so anxious on his account, and anxious also to 
prove to him that I would not injure him for the sake 
of serving any other person, that I ask you to be clear 
and decided in what you propose to him, so as that it 
may stand for a real bargain, and may not prove a hard 
one either. The sum I have mentioned seems very lit- 
tle, considered as the rent of the farm ; but I assure you 
it will cost William a great outlay before it can be 
brought into any thing like profitable condition.” 

“You are quite right, Mary; and the more I think 
of it, the more I am convinced that both William and I 
might be substantially benefited by such an arrange- 
ment.” 

“ Well, then, Thomas, since we have brought our busi- 


FOREST FARM. 


201 


ness matters so far toward a conclusion, I must leave you. 
But, womanlike, you see, I have been talking all this 
while upon a mere supposition. There is nothing done 
yet. I am far from sure there ever will be. It is quite 
possible your uncle may live for years to come, though I 
have begun to think otherwise. You know, too, what 
a difficult person he is to deal with. Peter may come 
again, and entirely undo the little that is done. Indeed, 
I am very much afraid he will. So don’t calculate too 
much, Thomas, upon any successful result. I am only a 
woman, after all — very ignorant of law, and altogether 
unpracticed in such matters as I have taken in hand. I 
have not a friend to advise me either. Indeed, nobody 
beyond yourself knows exactly what I am aiming at ; 
for, you see, I could not even have a definite aim without 
your entire concurrence. So again I say, do not be too 
sanguine — do not expect too much. It may all fall to 
the ground even yet.” 

“No, Mary, that blessed conviction that I have a friend 
in you will never fall to the ground — a friend who will 
pray for me, who has prayed for me when I dared not, 
or would not, pray for myself. Nothing can deprive me 
of this conviction ; and come what will, I believe this 
simple fact will do more for me than the possession of 
all I ever wished for on earth.” 

With fresh assurances that in this conviction he could 
never be disappointed, Mary now took leave of her cous- 
in and hastened home, afraid lest any one should have 
been wondering at her absence. 

So far, then, again all was well, much better than she 
had dared to hope ; for the promise which her cousin 
had made her was, to a temperament like his, one of 
those bonds of security which the strong may despise, 
but which are often of essential service to the weak. 
She had not asked it of him. It had been voluntarily, 
12 


202 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


yet solemnly made ; and as such she accepted it witli 
thankfulness for the present, and with hope for the time 
to come. 

And now what to do next Mary did not very well 
know. There were points of law on which she sadly 
wanted to be better informed. She knew an elderly 
gentleman, a friend of her father’s, a solicitor, living 
about eight or ten miles from the nearest market town, 
in whom she had the most implicit confidence ; but how 
was she to inspire the same confidence in others ? Be- 
sides, what right had she to bring a strange lawyer to 
the house, or to introduce any one in this way to the 
family, entirely upon her own responsibility ? 

Sorely perplexed with the weight and the urgency of 
these considerations, Mary begged, on her return home, 
to be allowed to retire for the night, and to leave the 
nurse in attendance upon the patient ; for besides want- 
ing, especially at this crisis, so to Collect her thoughts as 
to lay her plans with prudence and efficiency, she felt 
that the time had come for husbanding her own strength. 
For this purpose she had been anxious to introduce the 
nurse, who, from her long acquaintance with the family, 
could take almost any part in the duties of the household 
without being regarded as an intruder. 

For a long time Mary could not sleep — only think. 
She would have thought aloud, and told her troubles to 
her husband ; but he seemed weary, and little inclined 
for conversation, and, with the long story she would 
have to unfold, his night’s rest would be sadly dis- 
turbed. So she concluded to leave all such explana- 
tions until a more suitable time, and, if possible, so far 
to forget them for the present as to obtain a little sleep 
herself. 

From a sort of half slumber long delayed, Mary was 
suddenly startled by the nurse, who came about the first 


FOREST FARM. 


203 


glimpse of dawn to tell her that Mr. Ashton wished to 
see her. Mary went immediately, and on reaching the 
side of his bed he said hastily, “We shall want another 
lawyer.” 

Mary thought he must be dreaming ; but she answer- 
ed with composure, 

“ That want can be easily supplied.” 

“Do you know any body? — any honest man?” he 
continued ; “ for I have made up my mind, come what 
will, that I’ll get out of this fellow’s clutches if I can.” 

Mary’s heart bounded at these words. She could 
scarcely breathe. But she answered, with such calm- 
ness as she could command, that her father had a friend 
in whom he had the most implicit confidence, and whose 
character, she believed, had never been spoken of with 
the least suspicion. 

“ I wish you could see him, Mary, and talk to him as 
you talked to me. I can not forget your words. But 
then you are only a woman, and women know so little 
— almost nothing, one may say.” 

“True, father, I feel that myself, and I have been 
thinking the same thoughts as you — that we want a 
friend to consult with who knows all the ins and outs of 
these business matters. Would you like me to go and 
see this friend of ours ?” 

“ Could you go ? Do you think you could see him ?” 

“ Oh yes ! I have no doubt but I could. I know hini 
very well.” 

“But I don’t want people to get talking, Mary. I am 
so confused myself that I can not bear them coming 
about me, and one giving one opinion, and one another. 
It bewilders me quite.” 

“ I don’t wonder at it. Indeed, I don’t think you are 
fit for any thing of this kind. One clear-headed adviser, 
if a true and conscientious man, would do more for you 


204 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


than we can do altogether. But will you promise me 
one thing, father 

“ What is that ?” 

“ That, if Peter should come while I am away, you 
won’t go back to your old transactions with him, but 
just keep quiet, and promise nothing.” 

“ You don’t think he will come, do you ?” 

“ I am not sure — one never can be sure of him. It 
will be a long day’s journey to me, and you will be left 
entirely to your own guidance if he should come. There 
will be nobody to help you but that good God who 
knows our trials, and is ever at hand to strengthen us in 
doing right. Do you think you can bear this in mind, 
father, that He will help you, if only you will strive your 
utmost to do right ?” 

“ I’ll try, Mary. But had they not better be told to 
keep Peter away if he should come ?” 

“No, I think not ; for that Avould give him a handle 
for saying that you had been forcibly dealt with Avhen 
you were weak and helpless, and so that whatever you 
might do under such circumstances would not be your 
own act and will. I think you had much better see 
Peter if he comes ; but do, I entreat you, be on your 
guard.” 

“ Well, I’ll try, Mary. That’s all I can say. But 
you know we farmers are not up to long argumenta- 
tions about points of law, and such-like. Take us out of 
our ridges and furrows, and we are as simple as chil- 
dren.” 

“ Then just be simple, father — don’t attempt to be any 
thing else. You can never cope with Peter on his own 
ground ; but you can stand upon what is right, and that 
is always the best and the surest ground. Keep only to 
that, and I have no fear for you ; but once lose hold of 
the simple right, and, with such a man as Peter, you are 


FOEEST FAEM. 


205 


utterly gone. Kow, do you think I may venture to leave 
you ? for, if I make this journey, I must be stirring early. 
I should like to get back to-night.” 

“ To-night ! To be sure you must be back to-night.” 

“I answer in your own words, then — I’ll try. We 
can neither of us do more than that. But I see the 
morning is beginning to break. I must not stay an- 
other minute. So good-by again. Nurse will take good 
care of you. Your medicine will last until the doctor 
comes. So once more good-by, and remember to hold 
fast by the right.” 

Mary now knew exactly what to do, and she set about 
it in rather a remarkable manner ; for the first thing she 
did was to go down stairs into the kitchen, when, taking 
the key of the stable from a hook on which it always 
hung for the night, she went to where her husband kept 
his favorite mare, an animal much celebrated for its 
speed upon the road. Here her unusual appearance at 
that hour caused considerable excitement, which was 
soon allayed by a plentiful feed of corn which she pour- 
ed into the manger; and then doing the same kind serv- 
ice to a fine pony, which Benjamin was proud to call his 
own, she returned to the house, and going up stairs to 
the boy himself, endeavored, for some time inefiectually, 
to rouse him from his early morning sleep. 

“ Benjy,” she said, when at last he was partially awake, 
“ I want you to get up. I want somebody to take a 
long ride with me to-day. Will you be the man ? Come, 
I know you will. So make haste, for it is business, and 
not play, we are going about — urgent business of your 
father’s. We shall have to start very early, and we must 
have a good breakfast too. I am going to ride William’s 
mare, and you, of course, your pony. They have both 
had a feed of corn, so you need not give them any more ; 
only groom them well, and look to my saddle, will you ? 


206 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


It is SO long since it has been used, I don’t know what 
condition it may he in.” 

Had Ben been fully awake, nothing could have sound- 
ed more to his liking than this proposal ; but it came at 
the wrong time to take effect in any very pleasing man- 
ner. However, he jumped up as soon as Mary had left 
him ; and, when once his sleep was shaken off, he was 
soon ready both for the breakfast and the ride. 

Mary had now something more to do, requiring a much 
longer interview with her husband ; for there was a large 
amount of preliminary matter to explain, besides this ex- 
traordinary enterprise, which admitted of no delay ; and 
William, hurriedly awoke out of sleep, was by no means 
quick to apprehend what Mary was perhaps a little too 
quick to narrate. 

Indeed, Mary, as might well be supposed, was just at 
that time in a state of most unusual excitement, so much 
so, that she had great difficulty in finding the hat and 
habit which were wanted for her journey ; for she nev- 
er, under any circumstances, forgot those little personal 
niceties which made her always agreeable-looking, if not 
absolutely handsome. Besides which, she felt on the 
present occasion that she must not disgrace her young 
escort, who had been almost forcibly pressed into her 
service. 

While Mary was dressing, and trying to make things 
fit which had not been w^orn for many months, she was 
also endeavoring to explain to William all which had 
passed, not only just then with his father, but on the pre- 
vious evening with his cousin. But William, like most 
men dragged into this kind of hasty confidence, in which 
they occupy only a subordinate place themselves, was 
extremely dense, and either could not or would not un- 
derstand. So that Mary had a very tough piece of work 
in the outset of her long day’s journey, and wnth difficulty 


FOREST FARM. 207 

even obtained from her husband permission to ride his 
favorite mare. 

“ You can’t ride her,” he said, rather sharply. “ She’s 
not fit for a woman to ride. She’s too spirited by half.” 

“ I think I can manage her,” said Mary, “ if you will 
only trust me. You know I used to ride a good deal.” 

William, if the truth must be told, yielded but a sullen 
consent. He thought surely his wife must be taking 
leave of her senses ; and as to all she was telling him, 
which she repeated in rather a hurried manner, and in a 
somewhat fragmentary form, he said he could make nei- 
ther head nor tail of it. Mary wished now that she had 
explained to him the night before the nature of her in- 
terview with his cousin ; but, as already said, he had re- 
tired to rest unusually early ; and, besides, her own heart 
was too full of conflicting thoughts, which she had con- 
sidered it most prudent to keep to herself until the morn- 
ing. The turn which the old man’s mind had taken dur- 
ing the night had thrown all things out of their expect- 
ed course, and Mary could only have recourse to woman’s 
last alternative by appealing to William’s tenderness, and 
asking him — imploring him, as he loved her, to trust her 
just through the events of that single day, after which 
she would explain every thing to him, and show him that 
all was right. 

A little appeased, William next expressed his desire 
to accompany his wife ; but Mary answered, no ; they 
must not both leave the invalid together, for who could 
tell what might happen? Peter, she reminded her hus- 
band, might come. 

“ And if he should,” said William ; “ what then ?” 

“ Why, if I were you,” replied Mary, “ I would go a 
good deal into the room, just so as to show that you had 
a right to be there ; but I would still leave them a little 
while alone, or Peter might say we did not let the old 
man have fair play.” 


208 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


With these and many other directions, Mary snatched 
a hasty breakfast, and then mounted her horse. A very 
proud boy was Benjamin that day ; for, besides the be- 
coming effect of a hat and habit upon Mary’s face and 
figure, she was one of the best riders in that part of the 
country. Before her marriage she had scarcely had a 
competitor in this way; and now the freshness of the 
early morning, added to the hopefulness of her own 
heart in the business she was about, gave a glow to her 
cheeks, and a happy animation to her whole appearance, 
which made her young companion think he had never 
seen so charming a woman before. 

In fact, Benjamin had never regarded Mary in this 
light at all. In his first acquaintance with her he had 
looked upon her only as a Methodist — the lowest type 
of humanity in his estimation. Then she rose a little 
higher in his regard, as a good manager — a sort of tidy 
body ; then still higher, as a brisk, cheerful companion ; 
then higher, as a good nurse ; but highest of all, as a 
brave-hearted woman, as she had proved herself on the 
night of his father’s accident. To all these the crown- 
ing charm was added now by her splendid riding, a 
charm which Mary quite unconsciously heightened by 
chatting ever and anon in a cheerful and familiar way 
about the merits of different horses, and describing some 
of their wonderful feats and peculiarities which had fall- 
en under her notice in her girlhood. 

To Benjamin’s listening ear, and excited attention, 
this was more than music — above sublimity itself. He 
could conceive of nothing to equal it. Had Mary been 
studying to gain his heart, she could not have • done so 
more effectually. Her throne became established there ; 
and ever after that memorable ride, the merits of all 
other women, individually and collectively, were tested 
by those of his sister Mary, as the highest standard of 
female excellence. 


FOREST FARM. 


209 


Mary was so fortunate as to find her friend at home. 
She had made sure of the early morning hours for that 
purpose ; and while she held her long consultation with 
him, her companion looked after the horses, as well as 
himself, so that all were in spirits for the journey home. 
The way seemed much longer to Mary, however, than it 
had done in going, and the night was closing in before 
the lights from the windows of the old farm-house, 
gleaming through the scattered trees about the out- 
skirts of the wood, afforded welcome promise of rest. 
Her young companion described her as “ game to the 
last.” Alas for his encomiums ! He did not see her im- 
mediately after she had entered her own room, when her 
hat was thrown off, and Nancy was bathing her fore- 
head and temples with cold water, and loosening her 
habit to give her more room to gasp for breath. But 
Mary never fainted. She was only tired — so thorough- 
ly tired that her strength, she thought, would, scarcely 
have held out for another mile, though she only knew 
how tired she really was after she had dismounted. 

Little, however, did Mary think of these trifling incon- 
veniences or sufferings, since she had succeeded so well 
in her mission. In fact, all had been arranged in the 
most satisfactory manner with the friend whose advice 
she had sought, and who had promised to hold himself 
in readiness to come to her, at any time she might desire, 
on the shortest notice. But while all that she had learn- 
ed from this friend tended to cheer and sustain her, she 
had now, on the other hand, to hear with dismay, that 
the much-dreaded visit from Peter had taken place dur- 
ing her absence. 

William feared the interview had been too much for 
his father. He said he was evidently not so well. He 
had asked for Mary so often, that he thought she had 
better see him that night. So, after she had refreshed 


210 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


herself with a change of clothing and a good cup of tea, 
Mary went into the sick man’s room. 

It was very distressing to see the patient as he was 
now — ^frightened, irritated, disturbed in every way. He 
assured Mary, however, that Peter had gained no new 
advantage over him ; that he had withstood him with 
all his might ; and that, much as Peter had tried to sift 
him, and harrow him, he had told him nothing, and men- 
tioned nobody beyond themselves. 

“ You did well,” said Mary. “ I don’t think you could 
have done better. I only wonder how you bore it all.” 

“ You may wonder indeed. It was like being fried on 
a gridiron. You never heard how he went on — some- 
times smooth, and sometimes rough. I don’t know 
which was the worst.” 

“ I can not imagine what you could say to him.” 

“ Nor I neither. I don’t know what I did say. For, 
you see, it was of no use talking about right and wrong, 
and those things that you talk about — none in the world 
to Peter.” 

“ Well,” said Mary, “ let us all try to get a little sleep 
now. I think I have found a better friend than Peter, 
who will come and see you whenever you wish for him.” 

“ Have you ? I wish he was here just now.” 

“Would you like him to come to-morrow?” 

“ Above every thing I should. Do you know, Mary, 
I am not quite satisfied about the wound in my leg. It 
pains me a good deal. Nurse looked at it to-night, and 
saw nothing, she said; but I don’t think her sight is 
very clear. I wish you would look at it. Perhaps you 
could do something to ease it, or lay me differently.” 

Notwithstanding her fatigue, Mary did not hesitate a 
moment, but set about the lengthy business of unfolding 
a variety of wrappers and bandages, in order to ascer- 
tain, for the old man’s satisfaction, that all was right. 


FOKEST FARM. 


211 


The injury from the accident had not been confined to a 
mere fracture. There was also a wound of considerable 
extent, and Mary had never felt quite sure that this was 
progressing in the right way. After a very careful ex- 
amination, however, she saw nothing much worse than 
usual ; and when she had replaced all the bandages, she 
had the comfort of hearing the patient say that he felt 
easier, and thought he should sleep. 

There was still something to be done. A letter might 
be got off that night by taking it to a toll-gate about a 
mile distant, through which a coach passed at midnight ; 
and Mary immediately wrote a short note to the friend 
she had seen that day, requesting he would set out to 
come to them without delay, as soon as that note should 
be delivered. 

“Now, William,” she said, “will you take this to the 
toll-bar, and ask the man to be sure to give it to the 
guard, with a trifle to make him remember it ? They 
will think more of it if you go yourself.” 

William willingly consented to do this service for his 
wife, for her heroic example seemed unconsciously to in- 
spire every one with a nobler energy to do what he could. 
And now, at last, Mary began to prepare for rest — that 
rest which she so sorely needed, but which, even now, 
she could not obtain without a number of preliminary 
plunges, sometimes in the sea, sometimes over precipices, 
but always on a fiery charger which she had no power 
to restrain. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Mart arose on the following day to encounter an un- 
usual amount of important duties, for which she required 
all the clearness of mind, and all the fortitude she could 
command. These duties were rendered at once more 


212 


CnAPTEES ON WIVES. 


serious and more urgent by a discovery which she made 
at an early hour, that the pain of which the patient had 
complained arose from a very unfavorable change in the 
state of his wounded limb. For a short time her skillful 
and soothing applications afforded relief ; and her friend, 
the lawyer, true to his promise, arrived while the patient 
lay in a quiet and perfectly collected state. 

The business, which was immediately entered upon, 
was arranged to Mary’s satisfaction, and, indeed, to that 
of all the parties most concerned ; for William had been 
made fully acquainted with every particular that morn- 
ing ; and although, on the previous night, he might have 
felt a little piqued that his wife should have acted so 
much on her own responsibility, he now assured her, with 
the most cordial proofs of his approval, that she could not 
have done better, nor did he think any other woman in 
the world could have done so well. 

Mary had been only just in time with all that she un- 
dertook. When the doctor arrived in the after part of 
that day, he pronounced the symptoms which she had 
discovered indicative of the most serious consequences ; 
and Mary had the solemn duty to discharge of making 
the old man acquainted with his real situation. With all 
her accustomed earnestness, yet with the tenderest com- 
passion, Mary did this, losing sight of all worldly con- 
siderations in the intense anxiety which she felt about 
his poor neglected soul. All that the most affectionate 
solicitude — the most fervent zeal could dictate, Mary did ; 
and if her patient and untiring efforts were not crowned 
with any triumphant success, she was never heard to 
speak of the old man in the language of condemnation ; 
nor could those who were most intimate with her ever 
detect, on her part, that she had even mentally pro- 
nounced upon him the sentence of the lost. If Mary was 
strong to hate iniquity, she considered it no part of hers 


FOREST FARM. 


213 


to pass judgment on the sinner, especially after death had 
sealed his irrevocable doom. 

In one respect the old man passed to the grave more 
peacefully than he would have done, had he been left to 
his own, or to other people’s wicked devices. He lived 
to see the heinous nature of the wrong which had been 
committed; and whatever satisfaction belonged to his 
closing hours was derived from the sense of having done 
something at least to retrieve the cruel injuries of the 
past. But his death at last was a suffering one, such 
as Mary and the nurse alone had strength to witness. 
When all was over, it was felt by every one in the fam- 
ily that what had taken place was of too solemn a char- 
acter to admit of the indulgence even of a secret feeling 
of relief ; and it was long before any thing like genuine 
cheerfulness was restored to the household at Forest 
Farm. 

All had, in fact, their own burdens to bear — all their 
own calculations to make upon the future ; and, beyond 
that, all had their own errors and shortcomings to re- 
gret. Perhaps no one felt this more than Bessy. She 
was of a nature to be peculiarly affected by the spectacle 
of physical suffering, and also by the awful transition 
from active life to the silence of the grave. Little as 
was the affection which she had sometimes manifested 
for her father while living, she could not forget him 
when dead ; and, notwithstanding the bright future now 
opening upon herself and the one being in the world 
whom she had ever truly loved, she remained to be 
for a long time the deepest mourner over her father’s 
grave. 

Mary never made any close inquiry of Bessy as to the 
real cause of her tears, neither did she attempt to check 
them. She hoped they had a deeper source than mere 
natural feeling, and that compunction, as well as filial 


214 


CHAPTEES ON AVIVES. 


tenderness, was at the root from whence they flowed. 
Once, and only once, in one of those outbursts of emotion 
to Avhich Bessy was subject, did Mary come at any thing 
like a solution of the true state of her mind. Bessy de- 
clared that she never had believed in any body’s religion 
until she knew Mary ; but “ now,” she said, “ I’ll be of 
no religion but yours for life ; and if there is ever such a 
little company of Methodists to be found in America, I’ll 
make one of them.” 

Mary could not help smiling at her sister’s earnestness, 
but assured her it mattered httle what outward pro- 
fession she embraced, if she was but a Christian in heart 
and life ; and she recommended her to keep closely to 
her Bible, rather than to be too anxious about connect- 
ing herself with any religious community, until her own 
mind should become more imbued with the principles of 
eternal truth. In cases like hers, she told her, secret 
prayer was more necessary than public praise. In this 
way they would each remember the other in their dis- 
tant homes, Avhile the same HeaA^enly Father, she doubt- 
ed not, Avould graciously listen to them both, and bring 
them, she fervently hoped, to His own eternal home at 
last. 

Those are indeed solemn seasons in human experience 
when the long-closed heavens seem to open above our 
heads, and showers of unexpected mercy fall upon our 
path. The storm and the tempest we set ourselves to 
resist, and the long pinching of the bitter frost, seems to 
harden our rebellious nature. But the dew, and the 
sunshine, and the genial showers, coming when we least 
expect them — who can be otherwise than softened under 
their combined influence ? 

It was thus in the little household at Forest Farm, to 
which the once outcast cousin noAV came as a frequent 
and welcome guest. He was, in fact, the rightful owner 


FOREST FARM. 


215 


of the entire property ; but it seemed to pain him to be 
openly treated as such. He wanted only to be like a 
brother, he said, in that now peaceful and happy house- 
hold, where Bessy and her mother still remained ; the 
one for life, the other only until the time of her marriage, 
when she and Thomas were to proceed immediately to 
Canada. Benjamin also was to remain, and make him- 
self useful upon the farm; for, as William said, even 
with the united wisdom of their two heads, and the labor 
of their hands, there would be enough to do to reclaim 
the land from its condition of long mismanagement and 
neglect. 

Mary could now work after her heart’s desire in mak- 
ing the old house not only habitable, but comfortable in 
every part. ISTor was her attention confined to the in- 
terior capabilities of the mansion. All around the house 
— the old-fashioned windows and porch, the small pre- 
tense to a garden, and the wide grass-grown orchard — 
every thing appertaining to home came under her trans- 
forming power, so far as the simplest means of improve- 
ment could be made to extend ; and all began, in a very 
short space of time, to assume a difierent aspect. The 
capabilities of the place were, indeed, considerable ; and 
Mary had a great gift for planning and arranging so as 
to make the most of every thing. She herself worked 
hard ; yet so often pressing Benjamin into her service, 
that William sometimes laughingly remonstrated, and 
said he had no help from the boy himself. All, howev- 
er, worked harmoniously, as well as diligently ; and so 
the domestic machine went cheerily on from day to day 
in its routine of united duties, bringing every one to 
their nightly rest with wearied limbs, yet seldom with- 
out a thankful heart. 

All, however, was not perfect peace nor perfect com- 
fort at the farm. There were elements of discord with- 


216 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


out, of sufficient violence to disturb the family for many 
wearisome days of strife and bitterness. Peter Ashton 
was prepared, or said he was prepared, stoutly to con- 
test the validity of the last will made by his uncle, and 
the whole family had to prepare for entering upon what 
appeared likely to be a tedious and most unpleasant law- 
suit. 

In consequence of this stormy prospect before them, 
the marriage of Thomas Ashton with his cousin was de- 
ferred, as it seemed important that he should remain on 
the spot while the law proceedings were going on ; and, 
whatever might be felt by others in consequence of this 
delay, Mary was well pleased that time should be allow- 
ed her cousin for proving, among his former acquaint- 
ances, that he was resolved to begin a new and a better 
life — a resolution which he maintained so nobly, that 
even those who had formerly entertained the worst opin- 
ion of him began to change their tone and manner alto- 
gether, speaking of him not unfrequently as one more 
sinned against than sinning. Nor was this change of 
opinion less striking when it became generally known 
that he was the rightful owner of Forest Farm. 

After a great deal of threatening and bluster on the 
part of Peter Ashton, his antagonistic proceedings be- 
gan, in some measure, to subside. He never confessed, 
in so many words, that he had given the matter up; but 
there were prudential reasons, closely connected with his 
own character and position, which operated powerfully 
against his venturing upon any public encounter likely 
to result in an exposure of his secret practices ; and, un- 
der the pressure of these considerations, he did virtually, 
if not confessedly, give the matter up. 

William was more than half inclined to turn round 
upon Peter, and compel him to refund all the money he 
had received from old Mr. Ashton while occupying the 


FOREST FARM. 


217 


farm; but Thomas preferred letting that matter rest. 
It was dangerous, he said, to begin to stir in foul wa- 
ters, and, for his part, he would make his brother wel- 
come to his unjustly acquired gains. 

So peace was at last the portion of the family; and 
then there was the preparation for a long, long journey, 
and a quiet country wedding, to occupy all parties ; and 
sisterly thoughts and plans among the women, and 
brotherly kindnesses among the men, filled up the inter- 
vals of more active service. And over all there rested, 
like a golden cloud, a blessed sense of Divine goodness 
and protection, and in every heart a deep conviction, 
never more to be effaced, that there is something in the 
simple right more precious than any thing which this 
world can offer when right is violated, or even lightly 
esteemed. 

K 


\ 


GEORGE MILBAKK. 


CHAPTER 1. 

There are few types of the true Englishman more 
genuine than that which is indicated by the expression, 
“ a Manchester man.” Such a man, not living in Man- 
chester, but in one of those large, lately-grown manufac- 
turing towns which emulate the career of that prosper- 
ous city, was George Milbank. All his associations were 
of the same class — earnest, direct, solid. In the popu- 
lous and rising town of Highchff, where he and his broth- 
er Charles now carried on an extensive manufacturing 
business, their father, who had sprung from the ranks of 
the working people, had made his way to wealth and in- 
fluence by the very qualities which descended in no in- 
ferior degree upon his sons. But the sons had this ad- 
vantage over their father — that their education had been 
pursued at an excellent school, where, if they had never 
gone very deeply into classic lore, they had been well in- 
structed in the elements of general science, and thus had 
returned home with a more valuable stock of intelligence 
than is always the accompaniment of a strictly classical 
education. 

Both brothers, as boys, were warm-hearted, fearless, 
honest, and true. Their characters at school had that 
rare merit of standing almost equally well with their 
teachers, and their companions. George was more man- 
ly, and altogether more capable than his younger broth- 
er Charles. He had a fine person, cast in a somewhat 
Herculean mould, with an open, handsome countenance. 


220 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


deep manly voice, and such a laugh as did the heart 
good to hear it. 

But, in connection with these strong and sterling qual- 
ities, George had that true English tendency to shyness, 
or rather sensitiveness, not unfrequently allied, as in his 
case, with powers which might easily he so exercised as 
to excite terror in others. Strange contradiction ! Yet 
how often do we see, among our countrymen, the most 
indomitable resolution associated with the tenderest 
sensitiveness on certain points ; and a spirit that would 
do battle with a force ten times stronger than its own, 
quailing before some imaginary or secret foe. The great 
muscular form, too, with courage and determination 
written upon every joint and muscle, how it can flinch 
and tremble when certain words are spoken, or when 
covert meanings are implied ; in fact, when attacked by 
any of those peculiar weapons of warfare which it has 
little skill in using, and still less in warding ofi*. 

Thus it was that George Milbank left school an ex- 
tremely bashful youth, much addicted to blushing, and 
also to blundering sometimes, especially when placed in 
any new or doubtful position, or, as he called it, “thrown 
ofi* his own ground.” George was very sensible of 
these weaknesses of his, and he hated them. He was 
sensible, almost too much so, of all his defects and short- 
comings. He knew how much his movements wanted 
grace ; but his limbs were so large, and had such power 
in them, it was very difficult to make them move grace- 
fully. He knew there were certain defects in his mode 
of speech — a tendency to the provincialisms of his native 
county, which, though sometimes very expressive, he 
•would have been glad to lay entirely aside on certain oc- 
casions ; but, having no fine ear for the little niceties of 
speech, he never could entirely master this matter, and 
so continued, to the end of his life, to do battle with the 


GEORGE MIEBANK. 


221 


letter A, in such a manner that it was apt to escape him, 
like a half-conquered enemy, and to rise up again in some 
unexpected place, heading a small force which it never 
had any right to command. 

By degrees, however, the manly, well-knit form of 
George Milbank, his handsome face, his sterling sense, 
and generous heart, with a manner always frank and 
cordial, so won upon the good-will of society, that he 
found himself, to his own surprise, a general favorite in 
the circle by which he was surrounded. His younger 
brother, Charles, was scarcely less so, though inferior to 
George in talent and force of character. Together they 
formed an admirable pair, always united in heart, though 
occasionally differing in opinion, and universally spoken 
of as the best fellows in existence. 

It was, perhaps, well for this quality of power belong- 
ing so remarkably to George, that he was a Dissenter 
by birth and bringing up, because that gave him more 
elbow-room for doing battle against all abuses and 
grievances, and perhaps a little, at times, against some 
things by law established. Of course there were many 
who wished to lay hold of him as a powerful machine 
to do their party work for them ; his voice was so rich 
and deep ; his eloquence, though untrained, so stirring 
and forcible. But George drew back in early life from 
sheer modesty, and sometimes from a certain kindliness 
of heart, which made him shrink from creating enemies. 

But as the man grew within him — the man of busi- 
ness, of influence, and of public rights — George became 
bolder. Besides which, he could not help feeling his 
own power; and the pleasure of using it in a good 
cause was a strong inducement to lead him across the 
narrow boundary of domestic privacy into the wide field 
of public usefulness, of public effort, and, if it must be 
so, of public strife. 


222 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


About the time when his popularity was rising to an 
almost alarming height, George made the acquaintance 
of a family whose habits and modes of thought, though 
differing widely from his own, were no barrier against 
intimacy with a wealthy and prosperous manufacturer 
of good standing in society. A lady, the widow of an 
officer, with three elegant daughters, was residing in a 
genteel way on a small income, in the old city of Ches- 
ter ; and these George Milbank fell in with at different 
musical parties ; for he was an enthusiastic lover of mu- 
sic, and his own voice, with its rich deep tones, was in 
great requisition among his friends. The widow’s old- 
est daughter, Jane, was much admired for her skill as a 
performer, though she did not sing. Her ear, naturally 
fine, had been trained to the minutest perception of mu- 
sical sounds, while her white fingers flew over tlie in- 
strument with a magical touch, that was almost as won- 
derful to see as the sounds produced were wonderful to 
hear. 

George Milbank watched these movements, and listen- 
ed to these sounds, until he became perfectly enchanted. 
The graceful performer sometimes looked up and smiled 
— it might be at his simplicity ; but she certainly did 
smile, and that was enough for George. His place was 
always beside the piano whenever they met ; and then 
came the lending of pieces of music, and after that, hand- 
somely-bound copies made presents of to the lady. 
George delighted in making costly presents — it Avas a 
luxury he could not deny himself ; and the lady, to Avhom 
costly things Avere somewhat difficult of attainment, 
found it equally impossible to deny herself the luxury 
of accepting them. 

So matters Avent on, until Charles Milbank grcAV alarm- 
ed, and spoke to his brother, though half-jokingly, about 
the lengths he Avas going with that piece of fine ladyism; 


GEORGE MILBANK. 


223 


nay, he even went so far, on one occasion, as to call the 
lady a “ sharp-faced vixen.” What profanation, when 
she had been to George a very fountain of soft harmo- 
nies and dulcet sounds ! George only laughed his great, 
hearty laugh ; but he felt rather queer afterward, for he 
had a sort of constitutional tendency to attach weight to 
the opinions of those whom he loved or esteemed — all 
modest and sensitive people have ; and this strange ex- 
pression of his brother’s not only startled him at first, 
but dwelt upon his mind afterward ; in fact, until he 
saw the lady and heard her play again. 

George now made the acquaintance of the mother, a 
most affable and pleasing lady ; and very gratifying it 
was to him to hear that the daughter had spoken of him 
to her mother — had spoken especially of his fine voice ; 
while there were many other pleasing little facts con- 
nected with himself which the mother must have gath- 
ered from the same source, and which she contrived to 
lay before him in a very flattering manner. 

Could it be possible that, with all his solid and good 
qualities, there was room in George Milbank’s noble 
heart for vanity? No, no. Only love of approbation. 
No sensitive or bashful person ever was without that, 
or why should they blush and feel abashed — timid and 
disheartened about what they are or what they do, ex- 
cept from an ever-present desire that it should be ad- 
mired or thought well of by others, with a proportionate 
fear that it may not ? 

So George grew much better pleased with himself, 
and felt in high good-humor every time the lady mother 
talked with him in this strain ; and the confidence thus 
added to his usual style of behavior rendered him at 
once more gentlemanly and more agreeable in the pres- 
ence of the widow and her daughters than he was him- 
self aware of. To make the matter short, it was not 


224 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


many weeks before he had become a frequent visitor at 
their house, nor many more before he went there as an 
accepted lover. 

Perhaps the most difficult part of this business to 
George, though the offer itself must have been rather 
difficult, unless he was kindly helped through it by the 
other party, was the telling what he had done, and how 
the case stood, to his brother Charles. Words are often 
wholly inadequate to express what is felt under any sud- 
den emotion, and Charles Milbank remained perfectly 
silent on this occasion. George would have given any 
thing for him to speak. He had expected some violent 
outburst ; but this dead silence was utterly confounding, 
and for a while his great heart felt as if it was sinking 
into some lower region of his body. 

When Charles looked full into his brother’s face he 
could not be mistaken in the uncomfortable impression 
which his silence was producing ; and still finding it im- 
possible to say any thing to the purpose on this subject, 
he opened his lips on another, by doing which he hoped 
to be able to take something off from the sharp edge of 
this. 

“Well,” he said, “I suppose we may both make up 
our minds to be set down as a couple of fools together ; 
for when I was at Scarborough last week I met the Ma- 
pletons, and was with them nearly all the time. You 
remember Mrs. Mapleton, my father’s cousin, and one 
of those girls — the youngest — Grace — ” 

“ What of her ?” asked George, not feeling very much 
elated by the prospect of such a connection, if that was 
what his brother meant. 

“I don’t know what of her,” replied Charles, with 
much simplicity, “ except that I can’t get her out of my 
head, whatever I do.” 

“ How did she get in ?” inquired his brother. 


GEORGE MILBANK. 


225 


“ N'ay, I don’t know that either. But the long and 
the short of it is, I believe I shall start off to-morrow to 
that place in the north where they live ; and, if I find her 
at home all that I think she must be, why then I’ll make 
proposals — that’s what I mean to do.” 

“I thought they were so poor,” observed George, 
rather objectingly. 

“ They are no worse for that,” replied Charles, some- 
what sharply, “if they don’t make pretensions beyond 
their means. You know loe have plenty, and are likely 
to have more.” 

“ But,” said George, still hesitating, and by no means 
cordial in his manner, “ don’t you think a mother situ- 
ated like Mrs. Mapletmi might have been induced to 
make a little more of you than she otherwise would, in 
the hope — ” 

“ George, George !” exclaimed Charles, “ are you blind, 
and deaf, and stupid, that you don’t see your own case 
exactly in that which you point out to me as a warning ? 
I tell you once for all, that I don’t like, and I’m afraid I 
never shall like, that connection of yours ; because they 
seem to me to be people of pretension, without one 
thought or one feeling in common with you, so that all 
you will have to make you happy as a husband will be 
the jingle of a piano, and that you may grow in time to 
hate to hear.” 

“Well,” said George, “that’s what I call plain speak- 
ing. Have you any thing more of the same kind to say, 
Charles ?” . 

“ I’m sorry to say it, George — more sorry to say it to 
you, my dear fellow, than words can describe. Yet I 
^on’t — upon my life, I don’t see, how you can expect to 
be happy with that woman.” 

“Why not?” 


226 


CHAPTEES OK WIVES. 


“ Because, as I have said before, you have nothing in 
common — are alike in nothing.” 

“ When I think gravely, and reason upon it, Charles, 
I take great encouragement from that. Try just for a 
moment to look at the thing in the same light as I do, 
and you will see it in this way. You and I, you know, 
are only roughish kind of chaps. Plenty of cash in our 
pockets makes us pass easily enough in some places. 
But what -we want, above every thing else, is a little 
more polish — a little more knowledge of how things 
should be conducted to make them go genteelly. I 
hardly know how to describe what I mean, but I know 
there is a want of something, and a sad want to me, for 
I feel it every day.” 

“ Better have that want in your house, than in your 
heart, George.” 

“ Ah ! but you don’t know Jane — ^perhaps you wouldn’t 
understand her if you did.” 

“ Do you understand her ?” 

“ Of course I do. And I tell you she is one of those 
who don’t carry their feelings on the surface, for every 
body to see.” 

“ Has she any to carry, think you 

“ Don’t be hard, Charles, but trust to me. Do you 
think I’m likely to marry a woman with no feeling ?” 

“If you do, George, you’re ruined. Above all men 
in the world, you want a kind, feeling woman for your 
wife. Suppose she has a sharp tongue, George, and cuts 
at you, and sneers and snubs you, as some women can, 
what will become of you, my brave, great-hearted fel- 
low ?” 

George laughed his great laugh again. He felt very 
brave just then, and great-hearted too. He did not 
know what a sharp-pointed bill could do — peck, peck, 
pecking at him every day. 


GEOEGE MILBANK. 


227 


CHAPTER II. 

The two brothers were married within the same year, 
and brought home their brides to houses magnificently 
fitted up. All that money could do to embellish, as well 
as to render convenient and comfortable, was done in 
these two mansions, which stood, one in the town of 
HighclifiT, and the other a little way out. It is needless 
to say any thing of the taste displayed in these arrange- 
ments, only that George had a natural leaning toward 
what was gorgeous, and especially what was costly. In- 
deed, he valued money only for what it could do ; and 
that, of course, included what it could purchase. So he 
liked to see embodied in what was around him a certain 
amount of gold, and work, and color. He liked things 
heavy, and rich, and glowing. He liked strong pat- 
terns and striking effects. Thus his large mansion was 
quite a show, when the furniture was first brought in. 
He enjoyed it exceedingly himself, as he walked about 
on his rich soft carpets, thinking how delighted Jane 
would be. 

But Jane had by nature a different taste. It had been 
very differently cultivated, too ; and one of the first sug- 
gestions which she had to make was, that the drawing- 
room carpet should be changed for something more 
quiet. Yes, actually changed ! — that magnificent carpet 
which George had chosen himself, and paid, he scarcely 
ventured to tell how much for — it was so absurd, he 
said ; though, for his part, he did not mind a bit what he 
gave for a carpet — not he. 

Jane Milbank was very mild in her voice and general 
deportment — gentle, her manners would have been call- 
ed ; but it was rather like the gentleness which comes 


228 


CHAPTEES OIT WIVES. 


by trying to be gentle — not at all resulting from tender- 
ness. She was, in fact, never violent or extreme in any 
thing. She was too ladylike for that. All that she did, 
and much that she said, had the effect of being tinged 
with a large amount of neutral tint, while her husband 
eschewed her cool grays altogether. A mere looker-on 
would have said of these two, in their married lot, that 
the husband would carry all before him, and have every 
thing his own way, and that the wife had no chance 
whatever in any case of difference of opinion ; yet the 
drawing-room carpet icas changed, and that pretty 
quickly. 

To the other mansion, which Charles Milbank had 
fitted up not quite so gorgeously, there came a happy, 
grateful bride, who trod the carpets as if they had been 
rose-beds ; and to her they were so, only divested of 
their thorns. If she saw a fault in any thing, it was lost 
sight of the next moment in the exuberance of her de- 
light, and her thankfulness that so much had been done 
to make her happy. And when she saw the dingy rooms 
adjoining the mill, in which her husband had been con- 
tent to spend the greater portion of his time before he 
married, she felt perfectly abashed at the idea of being 
herself the cause of all this new and momentous change, 
by which theyswere both surrounded with an amount 
of comfort and embellishment, that, while it dazzled her 
eye, had the effect of melting her heart with tenderness 
and gratitude. 

Grace Milbank was a very different woman from Jane, 
though quite as intelligent, and, with the exception of 
some accomplishments, as well educated too. It had 
been a great object with her parents to give all their 
children a plain, good education. For this they strait- 
ened and denied themselves during many years ; but, 
having dischai;ged this duty, they knew that their chil- 


GEORGE MILBANK. 


229 


dren, even their daughters, must make their own way in 
the world ; and Grace was entering upon her third year 
as a governess, when, in those pleasant summer holidays 
which the family always spent together, crowding as 
much enjoyment as possible into the short space of six 
weeks, she had met Charles Milbank on the footing of a 
distant relative. 

But it was not Grace alone who had charmed the 
young man’s fancy, or rather his heart. He had no 
sister of his own, and he and his brother had suffered 
also from that great affliction — the loss of a mother in 
very early life. Thus the social family union of the Ma- 
pletons, the female companionship, with a good, kind 
mother as the centre and source of so much of their en- 
joyment, had presented a picture of domestic happiness 
altogether so attractive to the young man, that he very 
^ naturally persuaded himself that a flower transplanted 
from such a garden would bring much of the same per- 
fume and the same beauty to his own. Nor was he dis- 
appointed in his calculations. Grace had been nurtured 
in an atmosphere of love and truth. She was herself es- 
pecially real in all she said and did ; and she had known 
just enough of the sterner discipline of life to enter 
heartily into its comforts, and even its luxuries, without 
allowing them in any way to spoil her character. 

In all their habits and modes of thinking the two 
brides, as already said, were extremely different. But 
having married so nearly at the same time, and in a 
manner which threw them into close and frequent in- 
tercourse, it was almost impossible not to become either 
very intimate, or to live entirely separate. Circum- 
stances threw them very much upon the former alterna- 
tive, for they had continually something to discuss and 
arrange, in which each could benefit the other. Jane 
could dictate — Grace could execute. Jane could lay 


230 


CHAPTEES 0]Sr WIVES. 


down the law as to all matters of form and etiquette, 
and no one would have ventured to dispute with her 
there ; while Grace had sound judgment, and much prac- 
tical skill of her own, with a ready hand wherever help 
was wanted, which proved of essential service to her 
sister-in-law. Grace, too, could manage much better with 
the people around her than seemed possible to Jane. 
She had a pleasant, cheerful, courteous manner, which 
set every body at ease, and offended none ; while J ane 
could not bring herself to be quite so agreeable to those 
whom she considered ill-bred people, as the nature of her 
position and circumstances required ; and it is quite pos- 
sible that she would scarcely have known how to recom- 
mend herself to some with whom she was now brought 
into contact, even if she had been more anxious to do so 
than, in the secret of her heart, she really was. 

So the tAvo sisters became the friends of circumstance, , 
as many do. Nor are such friendships to be lightly es- 
teemed when they are carried on without rivalry, and 
Avithout converting the domestic secrets Avhich this kind 
of intimacy must ahvays more or less expose into ma- 
terial for the gossip of a Avider circle. 

But how were the tAVO brothers prospering under aus- 
pices so different in their respective homes ? Charles, 
Avho had hitherto been a little obscured by his brother’s 
popularity and influence as a public man, Avas beginning 
to hold u]D his head a little higher, and to feel that j)er- 
haps he also might be useful in his generation, if he did 
his best. And in the nice art of strengthening and en- 
couraging him to do his best, and never giving up out 
of vexation that he did no better, lay the great skill of 
his earnest-hearted wife. Grace could be critical if she 
liked, for she had a cultivated understanding, and a fine 
ear to detect little inaccuracies of expression or pronun- 
ciation, as Avell as a quick eye to perceive all peculiarities 


GEOEGE MILBANK. 


231 


of behavior, so that she could have made her husband 
feel very uncomfortable sometimes if she had chosen, 
and perhaps look a little ridiculous too. But there was 
ever present to her mind, as if it came intuitively, that 
reference to the relative importance of things, that she 
would not, even in playfulness, sacrifice the greater for 
the lesser good ; and this it was which enabled her, 
when her husband was advocating a noble cause, to hear 
him hesitate, and even stammer a little — nay, sometimes 
mispronounce a word ; because, as she said, so long as 
the cause w^as not injured by his inefiiciency, it was bet- 
ter that a rich man and a good man should throw the 
weight of his influence on the right side, than that he 
should stand acquitted of ever having misplaced the let- 
ter A. 

Ah ! that miserable letter ! What trouble it was be- 
ginning to bring upon poor George ! He never took his 
place in public now, but it magnified itself, and sat upon 
him like a nightmare, cramping his energy, and some- 
times stopping him in the midst of a burst of natural 
eloquence ; so that people, gazing up intently at the 
strong man in his fervor, wondered wdiat had come over 
him all at once, and thought whether it ^^ad been a stitch 
or a spasm, when there only ran through him a sharp 
conviction that he had slipped ofi* that letter from a word 
where it ought to be, and stuck it on to another where 
it ought not. 

By degrees, too, as the domestic affairs over which 
Jane presided assumed a more elegant and recherche 
character, little French words crept in now and then, 
with a sprinkling of Italian occasionally ; but, as the lat- 
ter was confined chiefly to music, George felt less diffi- 
culty in making himself at home with it. With regard 
to French, Jane found it necessary to be continually in- 
structing and correcting her husband in the use of it ; 


232 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


for as he observed that almost every body around him 
made free application of it, whether correctly or not, and 
as he understood it sufficiently to find a phrase now and 
then extremely useful, he did not see why he should not 
help himself out of this language as well as others. 
Thus, at the head of his own table, he made the experi- 
ment now and then, without, most probably, any single 
soul there present, except the one most nearly allied to 
his own, detecting the least error in his pronunciation. 
In fact, he was always too careful not to venture beyond 
his knowledge to be in much danger of committing him- 
self. Only — here was the risk — Jane was so perpetually 
correcting and dictating ; she caught him up so often 
when he was in earnest about other things, and she made 
him feel so intolerably absurd when afterward describing 
what he had said or done, that in the midst of such end- 
less “ bother,” as he called it, he did not know French 
from English, but, totally forgetting the use of his moth- 
er tongue, could easily have fancied himself one of the 
builders of the Tower of Babel. 

On one occasion especially George was so grievously 
overtaken with this kind of confusion, that he never 
made the experiment of using the same words again. 
Every one near him, George observed, in their public 
speaking, and all the papers in their political articles, 
made frequent use of the expression fait accompli. 
Why should not he ? It seemed almost as if the neces- 
sities of public usefulness required this of England’s ora- 
tors of the present day. So George in private, or rather 
at his own table, began first to try the words upon his 
own tongue. They were by no means difficult, yet Jane 
was not satisfied. She must have something more re- 
sembling that Parisian accent, which, she persisted, might 
be detected in every expression, however simple. So 
what did George do but, a few evenings after this, when 


GEOEGE MILBANK. 


233 


standing on a platform in the full flow of his burning el- 
oquence, with his large dark eyes dilated, his massive 
waves of black hair tossed back from his noble brow, 
and his arms gesticulating like a hero, as he was, or 
might have been — what did he do but detect himself, in 
his loudest peroration, saying something very much like 
fait accompleed ! And the eyes of his wife were upon 
him. Piercing, though distant, their keen glances came 
like sharp knives cutting the thread of his eloquence in 
two, and he sat down in the midst of thundering ap- 
plause, with the congratulations of all around him, yet 
with a secret terror palpitating deep within his breast, 
which could scarcely have been exceeded by the convic- 
tion that he had spoken treason or blasphemy. 

And thus these little torments were growing and grow- 
ing around George, as the Liliputians climbed about the 
sleeping giant, and bound him fast with the multitude of 
their tiny cords, until he felt hampered and crippled in 
every way, and sometimes mortified beyond endurance 
— mortified, indeed, so far beyond what the occasion de- 
manded, that he despised himself for the feeling, and 
rather gave up the act, than subject himself to such feel- 
ing again. 

And all the while it was never any thing strong or 
violent that Jane had to say. She was an excellent wife 
— nobody could deny that — and loved her husband truly, 
if not tenderly — as much as it would have been possible 
for her to love any man. So much, indeed, that she 
wanted to make him quite perfect ; and all this solici- 
tude, which her husband vulgarly called “ bother,” arose 
simply out of her anxiety that he should never utter a 
word, or commit an act, not entirely worthy of him — and 
of her. 

In the first instance, she thought his loud laugh must 
be stopped ; and in the very midst of it, when he was 


234 


CHAPTEES OlH WIVES. 


the merriest and the happiest, she would shrink aside 
with a painful expression on her face, indicating how un- 
able she was to bear so rude a shock. So George grew 
uncomfortable when he found he had been laughing, and 
would sometimes check himself, and become suddenly 
graffe without any one being able to guess why. 

Then George made faces when he sung, Jane said ; 
and she made a face herself to show him how he had 
looked ; so that he ever afterward pictured himself, 
while singing, as guilty of some horrid grimace. That 
idea threw him out of tune, and then Jane looked shar])- 
ly round, with an expression that seemed to say, “ That’s 
you again — you who always put every body out.” So 
George grew shy of his singing, and would not join, but 
sat apart and listened ; and every one wondered what 
had come over him. He was not unhappy. Every thing 
went well with him. He was simply smibhed. 

Pity it is that we have no better, or rather no more 
refined word in our language for designating this most 
unwholesome process, so thoroughly calculated to check 
and frustrate all that is hopeful, and cheering, and good. 
True, there may be cases in which snubbing is useful, 
and persons to whom it might be appropriately applied ; 
but as a domestic or conjugal system in constant opera- 
tion, it is one which represents the worst phase of that 
falling of water drop by drop, which has ever j^aralyzed 
the noble energies of a generous heart. 

v 

CHAPTER III. 

One thing must be taken into account on the side of 
Jane Milbank’s system as it operated against her hus- 
band’s public efforts — that she was no Dissenter — never 
had been — never could be ; nor had she, either by nature 
or by education, the least sympathy with that onward 


GEORGE MILBANK. 


235 


progress of the middle classes in which dissent is often 
both an active and a powerful agent. Like many per- 
sons of Jane’s tendency of character, she had a very com- 
fortable way of stepping over the middle classes in her 
own person altogether, and taking rank with the higher, 
never dreaming that those who belonged legitimately to 
the latter might reasonably wonder what business she 
had there. 

But if Jane in her heart ignored all those vast and 
stirring interests in which her husband was so deeply 
implicated, she never openly opposed them. She never 
made any direct attack either upon dissent, or upon lib- 
eral political opinions, such as were held by her husband, 
his family, and his party. She was too good a wife, and 
too prudent a woman for that. Her sense of right and 
fairness, too, would have prevented her doing any thing 
of this kind, had she felt inclined ; for, having known all 
about it before her marriage, and having passed these 
dilferences of opinion over as no obstacle then, she was 
fully aware that there could be neither reason nor justice 
in making them matters of dispute now. 

We have already said that Jane was an excellent wife, 
according to her ideas of conjugal duty. She was cer- 
tainly an excellent mistress. Perhaps no husband ever 
had a right to feel, in a higher degree than George Mil- 
bank, that his household affairs were conducted without 
a fault. Jane had the art of making capital servants. 
If she found in them by nature the qualities required, 
her admirable discipline soon converted them into all 
that she wished ; wanting those qualities, they were 
speedily dismissed. The ladies of the neighborhood 
knew of no higher recommendation to a servant than 
that she had lived a good while with Mrs. Milbank, and 
had left with a character. 

George admired the faultless working of his domestic 


236 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


economy, just as he would have admired that of some 
beautiful piece of mechanism. He was rather proud of 
his dinners, but less and less so of himself. Here was 
the thorn of perpetual irritation. His self-love was so 
continually wounded, that it seemed as if actually dying 
out, and, with that, his self-confidence — almost his self- 
respect. He was beginning to feel within himself that 
he could do nothing well, could fill no place worthily, 
nor acquit himself as he ought under any circumstances. 
Had his wife attacked his principles, either religious or 
political, he would have argued with her stoutly, for he 
knew very well how to do that. Had she been violent, 
and open, and direct, in her opposition to him, he could 
have done battle, even against her. Ho man could have 
done that more powerfully, or with more forcible effect, 
than himself. He feared no attack in the open field — 
not he ; and from a woman ! He would have laughed, 
indeed, at the futility of a woman’s rage against him. 
But this quiet eating away of all his powers of action — 
at least, of all his pleasure in using them — was like the 
gnawing of innumerable worms at the root of some ma- 
jestic tree, which tries for a while, in vain, to put forth 
branches, to bud, and blossom, and bear fruit, but at last 
succumbs to the secret enemy, and tries no more. 

Charles and his wife both saw that a change was be- 
ing wrought in their brother’s character, and not for the 
better. For some time this had been a subject for jest 
and banter with Charles ; but it was fast becoming too 
marked and too serious for that. Grace was secretly 
more troubled and alarmed than she liked to tell her 
husband ; for her quick eye had detected something of 
the cause, and she felt that it was one in which no third 
party could, without danger, interfere. A warmer ad- 
mirer, or a stronger partisan than Grace, it was impos- 
sible for any brother to have. Charles used to say he 


GEOEGE MILBANK. 


237 


believed his wife loved him, but she perfectly worshiped 
George. The fact Avas that Grace, by a kind of intui- 
tion, growing out of her intense womanly sympathies, 
could thoroughly understand a character like that of 
George Milbank. She saw all its natural weakness, but 
she saw its greatness too ; and passing almost heedless- 
ly over the few trivial defects on the surface, she pene- 
trated into its latent capabilities, longing perpetually to 
have them brought into light and action. “ Glorious ac- 
tion,” Grace called it ; for she kneAv how that expansive 
heart was beating with the warm glow of a healthy and 
noble benevolence, and that it Avould not, and ought not, 
to rest without accomplishing some great work, with the 
good of mankind for its object. 

In her secret thoughts Grace was not unfrequently en- 
gaged in planning out a course of generous, noble, and 
efficient action for her brother George, even more than 
for her husband, because she knew that, at the same 
time that he was better calculated for such action, he 
needed it more. Charles could more easily satisfy him- 
self with business. George had native powers which 
demanded Avider scope and objects of higher aim. How 
was it possible for an earnest-hearted woman like Grace, 
with so much of her tenderest affection clinging round 
this brother, to sit still and see so fine a man so likely 
to be utterly wasted ? But then, hoAV could she meddle 
in such a matter without making mischief, Avhich might 
be — for who can tell to Avhat such meddling may lead ? 
— like firebrands throAvn into their domestic and family 
union ? 

For a while, however, even Grace, with all her enthu- 
siasm, was compelled to lay aside these considerations 
for cares, as well as pleasures, of a more strictly domes- 
tic nature. In becoming the happy mother of a little 
daughter she seemed to realize the perfect filling of her 


238 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


cup -of earthly enjoyment. A son had previously been 
born to the other house, and both mothers had enough 
to do for some time with those endless discussions and 
comparisons which little babies always create, and which, 
often in the most curious manner, seem to level all dis- 
tinctions of rank ; so that the finest lady in the land can 
feel an intense interest, and sometimes even a touch of 
jealousy, at the peep of a little tooth that will never, in 
aU probability, have any thing to munch but the coarsest 
bread, and seldom enough even of that. 

What, then, must have been the amount of discussion, 
comparison, and rivalry between these two ladies so 
similarly situated ? We wiU leave them to it, for public 
matters were, just at this time, demanding the attention 
of the whole manufacturing interest, in no ordinary man- 
ner ; and every man of property and influence felt him- 
self called upon to stand forward, and declare himself 
either on one side or the other. The time, however, was 
rapidly passing for one of the parties to find a voice in 
the manufacturing districts. Such were the numbers 
with their weight thrown into the opposite scale, that 
the course appeared almost clear before them, only that 
such masses of people, with their interests lying all one 
way, are apt to miscalculate the weight and the force 
existing in a state of society widely different from their 
own, and with which they have no familiar acquaint- 
ance. 

Some of the wiser heads of that party which repre- 
sented the manufacturing body were quite aware of this. 
They knew that when the less enlightened people around 
them spoke contemptuously of old institutions, and de- 
fiantly of the worth of landed property, and the strength 
of those who held by it, they were speaking of what 
they knew very httle about. It was, in fact, so well un- 
derstood by such tnen that there was a power to oppose, 


GEOEGE MILBANK. 


239 


that every effort which it was possible to make was now 
enforced with the utmost energy; and public speakers 
and public men were called upon in every quarter, and 
met their friends on the platform, in committees and 
soirees^ or wherever they could be met in masses, so as 
to produce the greatest possible effect upon the public 
mind. 

Now, if ever in his life, George Milbank was wanted. 
He was wanted to harangue, to lead, to animate, to in- 
spire. He was a host in himself ; and, full of the subject, 
fired with hope, and encouraged by the cordial welcomes 
of his friends, he made on one occasion the best and 
most telling speech by which the movement had hitherto 
been celebrated. Jane was in the nursery, and George 
felt his power, as perhaps he had never felt it before. 
He felt also a kind of glory lifting him up to the occa- 
sion ; and yet he was always, even in his most exalted 
moments, a modest man in regard to himself. He was 
eminently one of those who are happiest, as well as 
greatest, when, totally forgetful of themselves, they are 
carried away with the importance or the grandeur of 
something far beyond their own personal affairs, and 
with which self has nothing to do. The injury to such 
a man of being reminded continually and painfully of 
himself, what tongue shall ever tell ? — to be compelled 
to think of the little, when the great is before him — to 
be told that his wings are only of wax, when he feels 
himself nearest to the sun ! 

For a while George went on triumphantly, and his 
brother triumphed with him, ever proud of his success. 
Multitudes of people were convinced — at all events, they 
were enraptured — and would sometimes have crowned 
him on the spot, had crowns been as plentiful as hats 
tossed high in acclamation. Grace heard of all this from 
her husband, and was delighted. As soon as it was at 


240 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


all reasonable for her to go out, she would go to one of 
these meetings, and insisted upon Jane going with her. 
She would listen to no excuse. It was a glory to a wife, 
she said, to see and hear her husband exerting himself 
in that way for a good cause, and so successfully too. 
Even if Jane was indifferent about the cause itself, she 
must care about the honor her husband was receiving, 
and how richly he deserved it. So Jane yielded, some- 
what reluctantly, taking care to tell her husband before- 
hand, how entirely she disliked that kind of thing, and 
how painfully she anticipated that he would commit 
himself in some way or other. 

From some cause wholly undiscovered by the public, 
George Milbank w^as not at all himself on this occasion. 
He began to hesitate, then stammered, and scarcely ever, 
during the whole length of his speech, got on as it was 
expected that he would ; for this was a great occasion, 
and George was to be the man of the day. Grace her- 
self was a little disappointed, and confessed to Jane that 
she felt rather nervous. Jane said it was misery — abso- 
lute misery to her ; and she went out before the meet- 
ing was over, making considerable disturbance as she 
did so. 

“ How,” thought Grace, “is the time for a wife to be 
a true wife. I do hope Jane will be very tender to him, 
and spare him even the slightest remark.” She herself 
would have known exactly what to do. But Jane set 
upon her husband the first moment he reached' home, 
expressing her hope that he would never, after this, at- 
tempt to open his lips in public, and declaring it would 
be impossible for her ever again to make one of his au- 
dience. 

“ Why, what have I done ?” said George. “Ho man 
is always the same. What in the world have I done ?” 

“Done!” replied Jane, with a miserable attempt at a 


GEOKGE MILBANK. 


241 


laugh. “ I don’t know what you have done ; only made 
me perfectly miserable, and Grace too.” 

‘‘Grace!” said George, looking up suddenly. “Was 
Grace ashamed of me ?” 

“ I don’t know that she was ashamed — only that we 
were both most wretched.” 

“ But what did Grace say ?” 

“She said it made her dreadfully nervous to hear 
you.” 

“ Did she ? Did Grace say so ?” 

“Yes, and more than that, I believe ; but I do not ex- 
actly remember her words — we were both in such a state 
of confusion and distress.” 

“ Well, you shall neither of you be made miserable by 
me again in the same way — you may rest satisfied about 
that. I will speak to Grace myself. What a pity that 
you either of you went ! Those meetings are no fit 
places for you.” 

George felt as if there would be no rest for him until 
he had talked the matter fairly over with Grace, He 
wanted to hear the worst at once — now, while the smart 
was upon him. But he could not see Grace then, and 
so days passed over with the same feeling rankling in 
his heart, and becoming more painful, instead of less so, 
as his imagination tortured the past into something a 
hundred-fold worse than it really was. Indeed, it was 
nothing — nothing but what must happen to every public 
speaker at times, and is always most likely to happen 
when most is expected. He had simply not got on so 
Avell as usual. His words did not flow so easily ; and, 
like most speakers conscious of not speaking well, he 
spoke longer than usual, as if perversely bent upon mak- 
ing bad worse. 

When at last George did open his mind to Grace on 
the subject, she expressed the most perfect astonishment 

L 


242 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


at the serious manner in which he had been regarding 
what to her had passed as the mere casualty of a mo- 
ment, not worthy of being thought of again in connec- 
tion with the stirring and momentous questions now oc- 
cupying public attention. 

But you, Grace,” said George, “ you yourself were 
so annoyed, I understand.” 

“ I !” said Grace, astonished. 

“ Yes ; you were miserable, nervous — I don’t know 
what — at the spectacle of your husband’s brother mak- 
ing such a fool of himself.” 

“ My dear George, what can you mean ? J^’ow I think 
of it, I believe I did say to Jane that I felt nervous. But 
what of that ?” 

“A great deal. I consider that expression as mean- 
ing a great deal.” 

“ Shall I tell you exactly what it does mean, George ?” 

“ Yes, if you will ; only be a little gentle and moder- 
ate. Indeed, you always are gentle to me. I think I 
could bear you to tell me any thing.” 

“ My unfortunate expression means simply this, George 
— that I honor and admire you so, and have such entire 
confidence in the good that is in you — the great talents, 
and the greater nobleness — 

“ Nay, Grace, you are overdoing it now. You are 
making game of me. I never thought you could do 
that.” 

“ These are as true words as I ever spoke in my life, 
George, and you shall hear them out. It is because of 
all that I have said that I want every one to see, and 
hear, and think of you as I do. Why, you are my hero, 
George. I know of none greater than you are capable 
of being, with an open field and a good cause before you ; 
and I — that is, for myself — care no more for one poor 
speech among twenty good ones, than a good general 


GEOKGE MILBANK. 


243 


cares for one battle lost where twenty are gained. You 
know Wellington used to say that a successful campaign 
was only a series of defeats ; and there is no man really 
strong and great who has not been taught by experi- 
ence how to guard against his own weakness. Besides, 
what was it ? Nothing — the merest nothing. I delight 
in hearing you speak, George. I glory in you, because 
I know you, and believe in you ; and I’m going to hear 
you again to-morrow.” 

“ No, Grace, you won’t hear me again very soon, I can 
tell you.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Because I can’t stand this — this — I wish there was a 
better word for it — I mean I can’t stand this perpetual 
snubbing. It’s all right, and there’s nothing I have to 
complain of in heart or home ; but somehow I feel very 
often like a man who is continually having his nose pull- 
ed, and his ears pinched, and his toes trod upon, without 
the chance of striking a blow in return ; without, in fact, 
knowing whom to strike or where. So I suppose I shall 
have to sit still in time, and give all up.” 

CHAPTER IV. 

There was nothing which George Milbank desired 
less than to desert his party in their time of need. His 
heart was with them ; and, so far as there might be any 
private work to do within the range of his capabilities, 
he was as much as ever devoted to their service, and, as 
he believed it, to the service of his country. But it so 
happened that the capabilities which George possessed 
in so high a degree were most especially such as fitted 
him for public usefulness. Many men could do the pri- 
vate work as well as he could, but few could stir up pub- 
lic feeling like him ; few, indeed, possessed so entirely 


244 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


the confidence of others — of those already one in mind 
and heart with him — and yet command so wide a range 
of influence in winning others over to the same opin- 
ions. 

Yet from this time George declined all public speak- 
ing, beyond the mere expression of assent to what his 
friends had said. He would take his place on the plat- 
form with others ; and he could not but feel deeply sens- 
ible of the welcome which always awaited him there. 
The applause which announced the simple act of his ris- 
ing from his seat might have assured him how little the 
public had been impressed with any failure on his part, 
and how easy, even if he should fail again, it would be 
for him to recover any lost ground. He could not help 
perceiving and understanding all this ; but the dropping 
well at home had already done so much of its work in 
half petrifying his energies, that he felt no spring within 
himself ; and, with the failure of that, his self-reliance 
failed also, so that he felt sure, as he told his brother, 
that he could not speak, even if he would. 

Charles looked earnestly at his brother sometimes, on 
these public occasions, and he saw that when the ap- 
plause was loudest and most enthusiastic George was 
compelled actually to conceal his eyes by stooping, turn- 
ing aside, or sometimes holding before him a paper, 
which he pretended to be reading ; for there were tears, 
actual tears, gathering in his eyes, and ready to overflow 
— ready, as he wnuld himself have said, to make a great- 
er fool of him than ever. So deeply and so bitterly do 
we always regret the loss of what is best and noblest in 
ourselves — the giving up of that in which we most excel, 
when we have been accustomed to regard it in the light 
of an especial qualification for doing good in our gener- 
ation. 

George Milbank and his brother were both men who 


GEOEGE MILBANK. 


245 


might have received their full meed of praise without 
the least injury to themselves. Grace used to say they 
were rare men, for even flattery could not spoil them. 
They had less than the average amount of self-conceit ; 
and yet they were both, but especially George, sensible 
in no common measure of the comfort and the value of 
a little hearty commendation — not of their talents or ac- 
quirements. George hated to be o^?er-praised ; but he 
did like to feel — what warm and kindly heart does not ? 

I — that his friends approved of what he was saying or 
! doing, and that, so far as he created any sensation in the 
world, it was in accordance with their ideas of reason, 
as well as right. 

People began to wonder in time what could be the 
cause of the change, which every one observed and talk- 
ed about, in George Milbank. His brother could have 
told them, but he scrupulously avoided mentioning the 
subject to any one except his wife. Even to George he 
could but touch upon it slightly and tenderly, for he 
knew that the cause which could bring tears into those 
eyes must be attended with no ordinary sufiering ; and 
he dreaded, not without reason, that such sufiering, often 
repeated, would have the efiect of driving his brother 
away from public life altogether. 

At length these apprehensions became realized. George 
failed to make his appearance when most wanted. A 
large meeting was held, in which he would have been 
the very man for the occasion. Charles Milbank stood 
up and did his best in an earnest speech without much 
eloquence, only that the feeling with which he alluded to 
his brother called forth thunders of applause ; and he, 
too, thought he should have to veil his eyes, for it touch- 
ed him to the quick to see and hear how his brother was 
looked up to, and believed in, and wished for. “ And 
what am I,” he said to himself, to be standing here in 


246 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


that noble fellow’s place ?” But Charles did his best, 
and that is always manly ; and Grace, who was present, 
told him afterward that he had done extremely well. 
So Charles was very much encouraged, and thought he 
would try again, if he should be asked ; for, as he aimed 
at nothing great, there was no danger, in his case, of any 
great failure. 

Toward the close of that day George came loitering 
in, and sat down beside his brother and Grace. He was 
evidently wanting to hear all about the meeting. Charles 
spared him, therefore, the pain of asking, by giving him 
a graphic description of all which had transpired, not 
omitting a few lively and playful comments upon his 
own performance, which Grace followed up with expres- 
sions of earnest and cordial approbation. 

It was scarcely possible, on such an occasion, to avoid 
some allusion to the fact of George having been absent, 
and Charles and his wife both felt that, for once, they 
must give expression to that which weighed so heavily 
on their minds ; and they did this with so much tender- 
ness and affection that George, after attempting many 
trivial excuses, and forcing himself to laugh with but a 
poor pretense to mirth, at last broke down, confessing 
his weakness, and his real distress under it, but, at the 
same time, declaring his inability to do otherwise. 

“ I do believe,” said Grace, “ after all, that you are not 
well.” 

“Hot well!” exclaimed George; and he did laugh 
heartily at last, as he showed Grace how tight his last 
coat had become already, assuring her, as indeed she had 
more than suspected before, that he was growing quite 
disgracefully stout. 

“ It does not follow from that,” said Grace, “that you 
are in perfect health. I should say the contrary.” 

“ By the way,” said Charles, “ what has become of 


GEORGE MILBANK. 


247 


that horse of yours ? I thought you were going to take 
horse exercise.” 

“Yes, the horse,” added Grace ; “ where is it ?” 

“ Sold,” replied George, in rather a dismal tone. 

“ Sold !” exclaimed Charles. “ Why, what was the 
matter with it ?” 

“ There was nothing the matter with the horse,” re- 
plied George, “ that I am aware of. The matter is with 
me, and it is just this. You know we were never 
brought up to much riding, and Jane said I looked like 
a country tailor on horseback. She was always telling 
me I ought to have seen how her father held himself in 
the saddle, and that none but military gentlemen knew 
how to ride.” 

“Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Grace. “You did ex- 
tremely well. But come, George, I’ll give you a chal- 
lenge. I was always used to riding as a girl, and I have 
been longing for it again, I can not tell you how much 
lately.” 

“ What ! with that baby to take care of?” 

“ Oh yes ! the baby won’t hinder me. I know of the 
most charming pony that I could have any day, and you 
shall buy another horse, and we will ride together every 
day.” 

“ If you have been so accustomed to riding, I don’t 
think you would like to be seen with a tailor-looking fel- 
low like me, Grace.” 

“ I should like to ride with you above all things, look 
as you may.” 

“ You would have to teach me, and that would be too 
absurd.” 

“ I should like that too.” 

“ But the look of it — what would people think ?” 

“ They would think you were teaching me, if, indeed, 
they thought any thing about us. But, George, why 


248 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


should we be perpetually referring to other people’s 
opinions about what we do? You and I have reasons 
for riding, and we can ride. Is not that enough ? And 
now, Charles, you will see about Mr. Nicolson’s pony 
this very day, won’t you ?” 

“ But the horse ?” said George. 

“ I think I can suit you there, too,” said Charles. “ I 
know of a capital one for sale, if you will give the price 
for it.” 

“ Oh ! he does not mind the price,” exclaimed Grace, 
in a state of great eagerness to have her project put in 
execution. 

So the horse was bought, as well as the pony ; and 
Grace rode out with her brother very often, and with 
much enjoyment, on her part, especially when, after two 
or three hints, she saw that he rode quite well enough 
for any gentleman not intending to hunt. 

But neither Charles nor his wife, with all their kind- 
ness, and all their delicate and prudent consideration, 
was able to counteract the influence at home which still 
continued to operate in the same way, even in the merest 
trifles, as well as in matters of higher moment. As, for 
instance, in the case of a dog. George liked a dog to 
trot after his heels, and sometimes to amuse himself with 
in the house. But Jane could not endure dumb animals; 
and a dog in the room with her made her so nervous and 
uncomfortable, that one day, in a sudden fit of vexation, 
George gave orders for his dog to be killed, and never 
made the experiment of keeping a dog again. 

As his child grew older, George would have found a 
source of almost unbounded happiness and merriment in 
its playful propensities, which soon bid fair to equal any 
thing which his own spirits as a boy had ever manifest- 
ed. He never tossed him in the air, however, screaming 
with delight, but Jane, with a look of painful anxiety, 


GEOEGE MILBANK. 


249 


implored him to be more gentle. He never rolled him 
in the sofa cushions, but J ane entreated him not to spoil 
every thing in the room. He never talked gibberish, or 
made grimaces with him, but Jane wondered he should 
think it necessary to make a buffoon of himself for the 
entertainment of the child. Until one day, goaded be- 
yond his patience, George almost threw the boy into his 
mother’s lap, and retreating to a couch in a distant part 
of the room, exclaimed, in a tone of bitterness, — 

“ I think it is a pity that I have any existence at all, 
Jane. It would be better if I was entirely out of the 
world.” 

J ane, who had no imderstanding whatever of the deep 
meaning of these words, spoken in that peculiar tone, 
took the child, and very carefully adjusted every fold of 
its dress, setting it upright on her lap, as she thought a 
child ought to sit ; no idea being, at that moment, farther 
from her mind, than that of having done any mischief 
herself. 

But there was mischief done, nevertheless, and that of 
a very serious kind too. So much so, that Grace said 
boldly to her husband one day — 

“I do believe I must have a good talk with Jane. 
What you told me of that family at the Green has so 
filled my mind, that I can not rest about poor George. 
How do you think Jane will take it ?” 

“ I don’t think,” replied Charles, “ she will take it at 
all, if you mean by that, receive it into her heart, so as 
to do her any good. I don’t believe it possible to make 
her understand you. She wishes to be, and I dare say 
thinks herself, the best wife in the world. How is it 
likely she will either be convinced that she is not, or 
endure with patience any attack upon her faultless sys- 
tem ?” 

“ I’ll try,” said Grace ; and true enough she went that 
L2 


250 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


very day, knowing that Jane would be alone. But when 
she found her seated quietly in the midst of her proprie- 
ties, and when she had sat with her a little while, and 
nothing particular had transpired to lead the conversation 
in the way desired, Grace began to fear her task would 
be more difficult than she had anticipated ; for how, she 
now asked herself, as her husband had asked her before, 
would it be possible to make Jane understand that she 
was not the best wife in the whole world ? 

It was an awkward business for Grace to undertake, 
because the very ground of all that she was about to 
complain of lay deep in the domestic secrets of the fam- 
ily, with Vhich it might with reason be asserted that she 
had no right to interfere. But there was the strong im- 
pulse of tender and affectionate solicitude to urge her 
on; and again repeating to herself what might almost 
have been called the maxim of her life, “ I must do the 
best I can, and leave the rest,” Grace commenced her 
difficult enterprise by observing that Charles and she 
had been a good deal troubled about George lately, 
“thinking him perhaps not quite well, and certainly not 
like himself.” 

Jane looked astonished, and laughed a little, saying — 

“ Indeed, I don’t think you would suspect him of not 
being well, if you knew how much stouter he is grow- 
ing.” 

“That is one thing that troubles us,” said Grace. 
“We think he wants more exercise — more work — to be 
called out more.” 

“ I can not imagine what you mean,” replied Jane ; “I 
think he goes out quite as much as does him any good. 
You don’t know how often he goes over to the Gibsons 
now — ^much oftener than he did until lately.” 

“ I don’t think the Gibsons likely to benefit him much, 
certainly,” observed Grace. 


GEOEGE MILBANK. 


251 


And she was right in this, for they were a musical 
family, whose habits and modes of thought were as friv- 
olous, and as different from those in which George had 
once found pleasure, as possible. But they were easy- 
, going people, who liked his company, made much of him, 
and never gave him a “ setting down,” as George had 
said, when his brother asked him why he went there so 
often. 

“ I did not mean,” said Grace, “ that merely getting 
out from his own home would do George good — far from 
it. But you know he used to be a public man. He 
has great capabiUties for public usefulness; and to be 
called out more in that line is what I think so good for 
him.” 

“ Indeed, that public business tired him very much,” 
said Jane, “ and he often spoke badly, and vexed himself, 
and came home quite out of spirits. You have no idea 
how mortified, and vexed, and tired, he often was.” 

“I can quite understand that,” said Grace. “But 
you know, Jane, whoever would do any thing great or 
good must run some risk ; and what I mean particularly 
is, that George is a man who would be better with the 
risk, and the effort, and the useful occupation for his 
talents and energies, than with a life of ease and noth- 
ingness.” 

As Jane made no reply to this, Grace was encouraged 
to go on. 

“I have sometimes thought,” she said, “that we, as 
wives, owe a great duty to our husbands, besides taking 
care of them personally, and nursing them when ill. I 
think it rests a good deal with us whether we lift them 
up as men, or drag them down — whether we encourage 
them and help them to make the best of themselves as 
men, as patriots, and as Christians, or so use our influ- 
ence to dishearten and keep them down, that they move 


252 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


backward, rather than forward, in the ranks of human 
being.” 

It was evident that Jane did not understand in the 
least what Grace was talking about, so she had to try 
again. 

“ Charles,” she said, “ was telling me a sad story the 
other day about those people at the Green. I am sure 
I always thought them rather nice people. I should 
have said Mrs. Lambert was one of the best managers in 
the world. But it seems she had a way of always set- 
ting her husband down. Poor man ! he told Charles in 
confidence one day that his wife had crushed the spirit 
out of him ; that he never could do right in her eyes, 
when he tried his utmost ; that he never, since the first 
day of their marriage, had received from her one word 
of encouragement ; and so, as he never got any credit for 
doing right, he thought he might just as well. do wrong; 
for though he said he did not want credit from the world, 
he did want something at home to keep his heart up a 
little. He told Charles, too, how all the little fancies and 
pleasures which he had once amused himself with, though 
innocent enough in themselves, had been denied him, or 
spoiled to him in one way or another ; until at length, it 
seems, he took to the pleasures of the table, and then 
groveled down so low that many actual vices followed ; 
and now he has gone off, nobody knows where, taking a 
girl who was once his servant away with him.” 

Jane might well look up with astonishment now, and 
she did so, with indignation too. 

“ You don’t mean, I-suppose,” she replied with warmth, 
“ that my husband is going off with his kitchen-maid ?” 

“ Oh no, no !” exclaimed Grace, with equal warmth. 
“ Don’t misunderstand me. I never had such a thought.” 

“What do you mean, then?” asked Jane. 

“I mean,” rephed Grace, “that men, however good 


GEOEGB MILBANK. 


253 


and great they may be, require a little humoring ; that 
they can not, and will not, bear to be always crossed in 
little things ; nor is it right that they should be tried in 
this way. In fact, I believe that the wife who would 
kindly, yet judiciously, humor her husband in little things, 
would almost always find him disposed to consult her 
wushes in great things. Besides, Jane, dear Jane, you 
must forgive me if I approach rather more closely than 
you like. I have been thinking a great deal about you 
lately ; and recollecting that you lost your father while 
young, and never had a brother, I have thought perhaps 
you did not know so much about men when you married 
as many women do ; and perhaps it never struck you that 
men have naturally, and generally, a large amount of self- 
love.” 

“ Indeed,” said Jane, “ I think that is striking enough 
to the humblest capacity. But what of that ?” 

“Well, let them have their self-love, since God has 
given it to them, no doubt for some good purpose, if 
rightly used. We, you know, have our vanity. Let us 
call one self-esteem, and the other love of approbation ; 
and then if, as the phrenologists tell us, men have more 
of the former, women of the latter, what can either do 
more wisely than to make the best we can of our natural 
tendencies ?” 

“ I should like to know,” said Jane, “how a man’s self- 
love is to be made into any thing but rank selfishness, 
and I see no use in calling it by any better name.” 

“ I think,” replied Grace, “ that we should only call it 
selfishness when it takes a mean and greedy form. But 
suppose we let that pass, and granting that men have by 
nature this peculiarity ; what I want to say is, that in- 
stead of trying to cut it down or root it out, and thus 
perpetually wounding it, what if we should endeavor to 
help it into a right course, give it a right direction, and 


254 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


keep it up to the highest mark ? I believe that even the 
quality so offensive when allied to characters generally 
mean and low may be made of essential service in doing 
all the great work and the hard work which men are 
called to do in the world, and which they never could 
do effectually, if let down by a miserable opinion of 
themselves, and a degraded view of their own capabili- 
ties. Besides which, there is always this important con- 
sideration for a wife to bear in mind — no man who is 
not utterly servile continues long to love the woman 
who is always wounding his self-esteem. It is contrary 
to nature that he should — to man^s nature I ought to 
say, for there are women who love in this way to their 
own cost. There is always danger to a wife, therefore, 
on this ground, because the wounds of a man’s self-es- 
teem are seldom if ever healed. Indeed, such is the pe- 
culiarity of man’s nature in this respect, that if he has 
a fond heart, and must love something, there would be 
little to wonder at in his turning away from the most 
admirable and even beautiful woman who should be al- 
ways wounding him here, to bestow his affections upon 
the meanest object, who should yet tenderly and con- 
stantly minister to his self-love. This is nature too, and 
we women ought all to know it, and to shape our course 
accordingly.” 

“ You seem very learned on these subjects,” observed 
Jane, after a short silence. “ I really think you ought to 
publish such knowledge in a book. It is quite too valu- 
able to be bestowed upon me alone.” 

“ Jane, dear Jane,” said Grace, “ don’t be vexed with 
me. I know that I am speaking to you in a manner 
which I hate myself, and should, perhaps, hate still more 
if any one spoke to me in the same way. If, as you say 
so scornfully, I really have some knowledge of this kind, 
I owe it all to a wise, good mother, who used to make 


GEOBGE MILBANK. 


255 


her daughters her friends ; and as she thought, perhaps, 
we should some time he wives and mothers ourselves, 
used to talk with us on all such matters in the way that 
I wish, from my heart, all mothers would talk, instead of 
leaving their daughters to marry in the dark, each after- 
ward finding out her own way, and many missing the 
right way altogether. 

“But I have not done even yet, Jane. There are a 
few more words I must say, for they are very important. 
All that I have already said might belong to a system, 
a mode of management, than which there is nothing 
more disliked by men. Now, it seems to me that God 
has given us all an instinct of affection to supply what is 
wanted, without system, and without management at all ; 
and that this instinct makes us shrink from the bare idea 
of wounding a good and noble man on the points alluded 
to. A conceited man, or a man seeking only his own 
ends, is quite a difierent matter. Happily for us, neither 
you nor I have any thing to do with such a case ; and 
all I have farther to say — for I am afraid that I have al- 
ready said too much — is, that if a man has reason to sus- 
pect that his wife is losing her respect for him, especial- 
ly if her manner, on occasions when he feels most sensi- 
tive, evinces any thing like contempt, he never can be 
made to believe that she loves him ; while, on the other 
hand, if this tender instinct, so peculiarly woman’s gift, 
is always employed to build him up on all such points, 
strengthening his self-confidence when about to fail, heal- 
ing his self-love when wounded, and ministering to his 
self-esteem when most wanted for prompt and vigorous 
action, he will then repose with implicit confidence in the 
affection of his wife ; because he will believe that it is 
founded upon esteem, approval, and even admiration of 
himself. 

“And now, Jane, that I have preached my little ser- 


256 


CHAPTERS OIT WIVES. 


mon, will you let us try together to build up your good 
husband, so as to help him to be all that is good, and 
useful, and great, which he is capable of being ?” 

“I do the best I can for him,” said Jane. “I don’t 
know what right you or any one has to charge me with 
doing less. I think if every woman does the best she 
can for her own husband she does her duty, and had bet- 
ter be satisfied with that. I am sure the last thing I 
should think of in the world would be to meddle out of 
my own family.” 

“I fear you are deeply offended with me, Jane.” 

“Oh dear, no ! I am not in the least offended. I dare 
say your intentions were good.” 

“Well, Jane, don’t let enmity come between us, for 
the sake of our husbands. Good-by ; and, dnpend upon 
it, I will never offend by talking to you in this way again. 
I can not bear that you should shun me under the idea 
that I shall be always interfering with your domestic af- 
fairs. Indeed, indeed, I never will again, Jane. Say that 
you trust me in this, or I can not leave you.” 

Jane did concede so much as to express her trust in 
this assurance ; and so the two sisters parted, never to 
be united as sisters again, only as the mere associates of 
circumstance, thrown together by accident, not choice. 

Some women in Jane’s situation would have been re- 
sentful. Jane was not. But she was distant and cold, 
to a degree which pained her warm-hearted sister more 
than anger would have done. Charles endeavored to 
console his wife with assurances that this painful impres- 
sion would wear out in time ; and they both felt that the 
only way left open to them was to take no notice of the 
present, nor to make any allusion to the past. 

But, alas ! there was no good done. George Milbank 
grew very stout and very indolent. The last occasion 
on which lie and his brother held any communication on 


GEOEGE MILBANK. 


257 


subjects once so familiar to them both, was when Charles 
one day expressed his surprise that he had not for two 
or three Sundays seen his brother at the chapel which 
they had always been accustomed to attend. 

George laughed. He did not want to treat the matter 
seriously. 

“ You see,” he said, “ the singing annoyed Jane, and I 
can not let her go to church alone. You know the sing- 
ing is execrable, Charles.” 

“ I know,” said Charles, “ it is the kind of singing you 
and I, George, have been used to from our cradles ; and 
it’s rather late in the day for you to find out how bad it 
is now.” 

“ Well,” said George, “I believe Jane bore it as long 
as she could ; for you know there was an agreement be- 
tween us, before we married, that she should always go 
with me to chapel in the morning, and that I should go 
to church with her in the after part of the day. But 
what with the child, and one thing or another, she never 
gets out in the evening now; and she has felt it hard 
being debarred altogether from going to her own place, 
especially with such a service and such singing as you 
have there. So, you see — ” 

“ Yes, I see,” said Charles. “ You need not be at any 
more trouble to explain.” 

And the brothers from this time said very little more 
to each other on subjects of this nature. They each went 
their separate way through life, Charles rising gradually 
in general esteem and influence, while his powers of use- 
fulness extended far and wide among his fellow-men. 
In all points of personal attachment, or of kindly inter- 
course, the brothers remained the same to each other. 
Nothing could have alienated or set them at variance 
with each other. 

With regard to his political relations, George gave 


258 


CHAPTEES OK WIVES. 


them up altogether ; and if attending the service at the 
parish church once every Sunday with his wife might be 
considered as constituting him a member of that estab- 
lishment, George certainly was so, especially as he never, 
unless on one or two special occasions, went into a Dis- 
senting place of worship again. If, therefore, one party 
in religion and politics lost an active, able, and efficient 
supporter, the other gained a very quiet member, by 
which, many would say — what we are not going to dis- 
pute — that society was a gainer. All that we are con- 
cerned with is the man himself ; and the question re- 
mains — did he lose or gain, as a man, by the system pur- 
sued in his matrimonial experience ? 


THE SECRET. 


CHAPTER I. 

When Jessie Williams left school, at the age of seven- 
teen, she took home with her the highest testimonials of 
merit. It was a high-pressure school which she left under 
these favorable circumstances — a school in which emula- 
tion was the sole motive power; and in Jessie’s case this 
power had been applied with wonderful success. It was, 
in fact, the power by which she was always most quickly 
and most effectually moved. To stand first, to gain the 
highest prize, to be more praised and more thought of 
than the other girls — this it was which kept Jessie alive ; 
this kept her at work early and late ; this made her 
quick to answer, keen to find out, and, in fact, all which 
her fond parents and ambitious teachers desired that she 
should be. 

To look at J essie you would never have guessed that 
she was a scholar. 'No more she was in the strict sense 
of the word. Scholar indeed ! The other girls, her com- 
panions, knew very well how little she cared for scholar- 
ship ; but then she did care for being first ; she did care 
for distancing Miss Jones, who held her head so high ; 
she did care for snatching the prize out of the grasp of 
Miss Smith, who was said to be so clever ; she did care 
when the professor singled her out as being the first 
young lady in the school ; she did care when she heard 
her name pronounced with pride by the lady of the es- 
tablishment, and when she read, in the servile submission 
of the junior pupils, that there was awarded to her that 


260 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


peculiar rank and distinction wkich all the other girls 
would have been delighted to attain, but could not. 

So Jessie Williams was sent home, supposed by all 
parties to be a fine specimen of what schools can do, and 
what, in fact, it is their express business and duty to do. 
The fault — but why should we speak of any fault, when 
the whole world is on the side of Jessie Williams and 
her school; when wise men and good women — when 
the highest authorities in the land call this education, 
and refuse to believe in education which does not aim 
directly and exclusively at this ? Yet we were going to 
say modestly, and with all deference, that if there were 
the least shadow of a fault in Jessie’s actual condition on 
leaving school, it ought not to be charged altogether 
upon the system, but rather upon the parents who up- 
hold this system, and so pay for it most liberally, believ- 
ing it to be the best. 

But what did Jessie look like, if not like a scholar? 
She looked as handsome and as pleasure-loving a crea- 
ture as could well be found. We will not be betrayed, 
even by the love of her bright looks, into a minute de- 
scription of her beauty, only so far as to prove, that if a 
scholar, she Avas no ascetic, nor could very conveniently 
have been one under any circumstances. The style of 
Jessie’s beauty w^as as follows — a somewhat dark, but 
clear complexion, with that peculiar glow in her finely- 
rounded cheeks Avhich this kind of complexion alone can 
boast ; thick Avavy folds of shining hair, in some lights 
glossy black, in others tinged Avith auburn, and eyes to 
match ; a mouth someAvhat larger than the Grecian, yet 
with such rosy lips and pearly teeth, that the most fastid- 
ious critic could not have found fault Avith its dimen- 
sions. Add to this a well-proportioned figure, about the 
average height, wdth just a little tendency, at this time 
of her life, to be too stout, and you may picture Jessie 


THE SECRET. 


261 


Williams, though even then you will want her merry 
laugh, her frank expression, and her flashing eye, with all 
the little artful turns of look and movement in which she 
w^as a great proficient, even at the age of seventeen. 

Now, whether such a physical structure as Jessie’s 
did not indicate the desirableness of a little care, a little 
training on the icomanly side of the educational ques- 
tion, is a matter of grave importance, not however, to be 
discussed here. Our business here is merely to tell how 
Jessie carried herself, and what she met with in the new, 
but real life upon which she had just entered. 

At first Jessie felt surprised to find her school acquire- 
ments of such extremely little value in helping her to 
gain the position which she liked best, and was deter- 
mined, if possible, to have — the Jirst^ always the first. 
Naturally she stood first with her parents, for she Avas 
their only child ; but to be first in society she soon found 
it was not at all necessary to bring forward any of those 
valuable acquisitions which she had gained at school — 
rather to keep them back ; and as for the gentlemen wdth 
Avhom she met, Jessie soon found that extremely little 
scholarship did for them. 

* Jessie had been a quick learner at school — she was 
not a slow one now. The lesson of life, as she regarded 
it, Avas, in fact, much more suited to her taste than any 
school lesson had ever been. The science to Avbich her 
attention w^as directed noAV was to look Avell, to dress 
Avell, to visit, to dance, and to flirt as occasion might of- 
fer. Jessie was soon at the top of her class, above the 
heads of all her acquaintances here ; and it was so pleas- 
ant too, so entertaining, so perfectly congenial to her na- 
ture — that nature Avhich had never been cultivated — 
never even dreamed of at school, that life began to wear 
an aspect more enchanting than she had ever anticipated. 
She had grown up to the age of seventeen more and 


262 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


more handsome, and saucy, and vain ; and no one had 
ever thought about the woman^ because, as the pupil, 
she did her tasks so well, answering all the stated ques- 
tions, and maintaining her position as first in her class. 
So now the woman had come to mix with other women 
— yes, and with men also, as little prepared for the real 
business of woman’s life as on the day when she first left 
the arms of her nurse, to be trusted alone upon the nurs- 
ery floor. 

But there was no great harm in Jessie after all. She 
was not false, nor mean, nor vindictive ; hardly capable 
of malignant feeling, unless where her vanity was con- 
~ cerned. She was generous to excess, and, where her 
pity was awakened, would sometimes do a kind action, 
provided only it did not tire nor trouble her, nor soil her 
gloves. She was so much accustomed, however, to car- 
ry things her own way, that she not unfrequently order- 
ed kindnesses to be done when not disposed to do them 
herself. She could be charitable by proxy, and so re- 
lieved her feelings, without incurring either trouble or 
inconvenience. People thought her very good-temper- 
ed — she took life so easily, and had such a beaming, hap- 
py face. They should have seen the flash of her dark 
eye when there was a chance, even the remotest, of a 
rival stepping before her. 

Of course Jessie had many admirers among the gen- 
tlemen, and she spared none who fell in her way. Hearts, 
so far as she had heard or conceived of such things, w^ere 
only curious toys to her, until, at last, the amusement of 
playing with them began to pall ; and, in her gravest 
moods, she became conscious of a secret wish that there 
was something more earnest to be done than she was 
doing — some real heart to win, perhaps, or lose — some- 
thing, in short, that would interest her more than mere 
flirtation. 


THE SECRET. 


263 


The sphere in which Jessie moved was confined to 
the middle class of society, so there was no very distin- 
guished conquest to be made. A lawyer’s clerk was her 
first admirer — an exceedingly small curate the next — a 
well-to-do manufacturer of more than mature age the 
third ; and so on, with many others of the same grade 
in society, none of whom, however, afibrded the slightest 
interest of a romantic nature. Nor, indeed, did actual 
offers of marriage arise out of all these conquests. Jes- 
sie had a skillful way of warding off any serious conse- 
quences, and marriage was far from being the result at 
present contemplated. She liked the conquest, and to 
have it seen that she had conquered ; but as to any 
heart affair, on her side at least, she was yet as ‘‘ fancy 
free” as if the language of affection had never fallen in 
her ear. 

So things went on for a year or two after Jessie’s 
school days were over. There is no sovereignty much 
more absolute than that of a young beauty who rules, 
and smiles, and dispenses frowns or favors, as the whim 
may be, within the narrow boundary of country life ; for 
though Jessie’s home was in a town, or rather the out- 
skirts of one, there was, among her acquaintances, as 
small a range of intercourse with the great world lying 
beyond as if they had been occupants of the most retired 
country village. Hence it was that Jessie grew a little 
tired of her uneventful life, and longed for other worlds 
to conquer beyond her own. It is just possible that 
Jessie was not particularly happy in herself all this while. 
At all events she was tired, and wanted something new. 
She said she would begin to study again, but she never 
set about it. She turned her attention to music again, 
but it was only because a girl of her acquaintance played 
better than she did. She took lessons in drawing, but it 
was only because an interesting Italian emigrant had 


264 


CHAPTERS OK WIVES. 


come into the neighborhood to teach it. Thus Jessie 
went on, with all the glow and flush of healthy life about 
her, kindling her blood, animating her movements, and 
flashing in her eye, yet with no earthly purpose that she 
knew of to fulfill beyond pleasing herself for the passing 
moment. 

Jessie had an uncle residing in one of the midland 
counties, to whom she had paid a visit on first leaving 
school, and about this time she was invited to go again. 
It was a change, and so far pleasant. The place at 
which this gentleman resided was only a genteel little 
inland town, and consequently one of the dullest imag- 
inable. Still there was some society in the neighbor- 
hood, and almost any variety looked more attractive to 
Jessie than the wearisome monotony of her present life, 
for as yet she was profoundly ignorant of the cause of 
her weariness. She thought the fault was in the people 
around her. She never suspected it to be in herself ; 
and, being there, was the best blessing God could send 
her in her present circumstances, because it was neces- 
sary that she should become either tired of herself, or 
disgusted or miserable, before she would be likely to set 
about in earnest to be any thing better. Poor Jessie ! 
she had a good deal to sufier yet, before learning this 
lesson. But we shall see. 

J essie’s uncle was a married man, with children a good 
deal younger than their handsome cousin ; and her com- 
ing created quite a sensation among them, as w^ell as in 
the quiet neighborhood around, where every event oc- 
curring in a family was talked over by all the others 
with the greatest minuteness, though, at the same time, 
with every possible variety of comment, and, of course, 
with a considerable amount of distortion. Thus the ar- 
rival of Miss Williams was a circumstance of no small 
importance, and her dress, her looks, her manners, but 


THE SECEET. 


265 


especially her admirers, soon became the almost nnivers- 
al theme among the women ; while the men found other 
topics of interest to dwell upon, not less closely connect- 
ed with the lovely and captivating stranger. 

Here, indeed, was amusement sufficient, even for Jessie, 
for a while ; but here also life began to tire. What could 
be the reason? She was young and healthy, and free 
from trouble in mind, body, or estate. She could have 
any thing she desired within the bounds of moderation ; 
for her parents were in easy circumstances, and always 
indulged her to excess. She had looked forward to this 
change with pleasant and excited feelings ; yet here the 
people were as stupid as those she had left, and the place 
even less interesting than her home. One thing only 
piqued her, and so added zest to the admiration she 
commanded ; it was the envy of most of the girls about 
her own age. This she was equally quick to perceive, 
and willing to be amused with, though still sufficiently 
good-natured to try to conciliate wherever it was in her 
power to do so without any sacrifice to herself. Even 
then the girls said her manner toward them had some- 
thing condescending in it, as if she pitied them for being 
less admired than herself ; and that kind of conciliation 
they did not thank her for. ISTo, indeed ! And they 
tossed their pretty heads, and thought they many of 
them looked as well as Jessie — only, somehow, the men 
did not seem to think so. 


CHAPTER IL 

Ptjesuing his quiet avocations, mostly of a scientific 
nature, there hved in the little town of Larchfield a Dr. 
Thompson, a man much esteemed in the neighborhood, 
though, perhaps, less talked about than any other indi- 
vidual there. He mixed but little in the society of the 
M 


266 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


place ; paid little attention to women — at least to young 
women; and, for the most part, kept himself separate 
from the gossip, the small talk, the fuss and the ferment 
of those rivalries and cabals in which such a place is sure 
to abound. Still no man was better known than the 
doctor, though in a very different capacity from that of 
an idle visitor ; for wherever there was illness, or acci- 
dent, or trouble of almost any description, he was sure 
to be there — ^nurse as well as doctor beside the sick, and 
comforter as well as physician where any family afflic- 
tion, or other cause of distress, rendered the presence 
of such a friend acceptable. 

Dr. Thompson, though a bachelor, was still young 
enough to have been joked about, as most unmarried 
men are ; only that it seemed impossible, in his case, to 
hang upon him even the shreds of a flirtation. He was 
clear of all suspicion of having, or of aiming at any thing 
in the shape of an affair^ if ever man was in this world. 
Idle, vain, and flirting women could make nothing of 
him ; so he was allowed to pass quietly on, devoting his 
tenderest solicitude to their grandmothers. Only if they 
fell ill, then, indeed, they did like to have him near them; 
then his coming was a pleasant hope for the morrow, so 
soon as the door had closed upon his departing steps ; 
while his advice, which he sometimes ventured on such 
occasions to extend a little beyond the mere concerns of 
the body, was remembered by many long after they had 
escaped from the sick-room. Often did they wish to 
have his kind, his delicate, but yet most truthful words 
repeated. But no. When they took their places in the 
ball-room again, or even in the accustomed routine of 
gay and idle life, the doctor was gone — far off as before ; 
and neither their brilliant glances nor their captivating 
smiles could win him back. They had a right, he said, 
to go their way, as he went his. He had no quarrel 


THE SECRET. 


26 Y 


with any one whose way lay in a different direction from 
his own. It was remarkable, on all occasions, how he 
bore with human frailty and even sin, without fault-find- 
ing or direct condemnation. And yet to lead such a 
life as he did, his housekeeper said, might have justified 
him in finding fault with half the world, and condemn- 
ing the other half. She knew she would, if she stood as 
clear as him. 

A few things, however. Dr. Thompson did find fault 
with ; but they were things^ not persons. One was the 
building of houses closely huddled together without 
back doors, the patching up of cheap wretched ten- 
ements for the sake of a small weekly rent, and the 
waste of health and property, with the corruption of 
morals, which this scandalous abuse of means is sure to 
produce. Then, again, the poor themselves tried his pa- 
tience sorely. He wanted to open their windows for 
them, to show them how to cook, and to make a totally 
different arrangement of their beds and sleeping-rooms. 
He knew he could make them a thousand times more 
comfortable, saving money all the while ; and he did 
sometimes quarrel with them so far as to use sharp 
words, when they returned to their old ways after the 
door had been closed upon his back. But he never said 
to any one among them — not even to old drunken Phoebe, 
who swore at him; nor to James Baker, who was had 
up for stealing the week after he had begged him off; 
nor to poor Polly Simpkins, who went astray — he never 
said to any of these, “ I am holier than thou ;” so they 
bore with every thing he did say, even when it touched 
them most closely ; and never, in their sober moments, 
did he hear from them an unkind or disrespectful word. 

Jessie Williams had not been many weeks a visitor in 
Larchfield before almost every thing possible or impos- 
sible had been spoken or suggested about her. The 


268 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


most impossible was that she could ever succeed in play- 
ing off what they were pleased to call her tricks upon 
the doctor. Almost every one said positively the thing 
could not be. Some said she would never dare to make 
the attempt; but there were a few who shook their 
heads, and one or two who said they w ould give a good 
deal to see the experiment fairly tried. At last these 
comments became so frequent, the pros and cons of this 
important topic so rife, that Jessie herself could not fail 
to be aware of what was being talked about ; and the 
consequence was, she planned within her own mind that 
the experiment should be made if ever she had the 
chance. She was determined, however, to make it so 
covertly, that no one would be able to triumph over her 
defeat, should that,Vindeed, be the result. 

The bets which were made upon this interesting ques- 
tion, as well as Jessie’s secret project, seemed, however, 
but little likely to arrive at any decision ; for, as akeady 
said. Dr. Thompson seldom if ever joined the evening 
parties of Larchfield. They would have been the most 
irksome waste of time to him, scarcely to be endured 
with any decent show of patience. So how were he and 
Jessie ever to meet? It is true she saw him every Sun- 
day at church ; but it seemed equally true that he never 
saw her, for he was not in the habit of appearing to look 
about him, though he managed in some way to see as 
much as most men. 

J essie did not at all admire Dr. Thompson when she 
saw him first. He looked old, she thought, and care- 
worn, and so awfully grave. She would have to become 
a sister of charity, she thought, or to keep a dame school ; 
or, at all events, to go about distributing tracts, in order 
to gain his attention at all. The case looked very diffi- 
cult, and her success much more questionable than she 
had at first supposed. 


THE SECRET. 


269 


Dr. Thompson was not quite so old as he appeared. 
Thirty-five years was the extent of his attainment in the 
way of age, but experience had carried him far beyond 
that period. And already there were silvery hairs about 
his temples, and lines across his forehead which told of 
deep thought, and perhaps deep feeling too, though not 
of the ordinary kind, nor such as could easily be express- 
ed in common language. No one, in fact, ever heard 
him talk about his own feelings, his own history, associ- 
ations, or belongings. He might have dropped from the 
moon for any thing he disclosed on these points himself. 
The direction of his letters, both coming and going, was 
carefully examined at the post-office, but nothing came 
of ^at ; and failing equally in every other system of in- 
vestigation, the little town of Larchfield had at last fair- 
ly given the matter up, turning its enlightened attention 
to other fields of interest, at once more easy of cultiva- 
tion and more fruitful. 

It was hard to let such a man entirely alone ; but they 
did at last, and had done so for a long time, until now 
this curious notion about Jessie Williams set them all 
talking again ; and the doctor was watched, and follow- 
ed, and peeped at, and whispered about, in a way that 
would have driven him distracted had he known. But 
while they whispered loud enough for J essie to hear and 
understand, not one of the whisperers would have dared 
to let the doctor hear, or even surmise, what they were 
busying themselves about. And so, while the little town 
v/as rife with this folly, the grave doctor sat in his sur- 
gery, very carefully putting together the fossil bones of 
a strange animal that was occupying his whole atten- 
tion, except when engaged in the more urgent duties of 
his profession. 

Now, if only Jessie could have flashed upon him with 
her splendid eyes while thus employed — if she could 


210 


CHAPTEKS OIT WIVES. 


have stood between him and his old bony monster, 
laughing as she did laugh sometimes — if she could have 
cut her finger with his sharp-edged .tools, and cried a 
little, and got him to bind it up — this would have been 
something. But Jessie was a modest girl, with all her 
coquetry — modest and maidenly at heart ; and the doc- 
tor looked to her the very last man upon earth on whose 
privacy she would have intruded, or whose scruples she 
Avould have shocked. 

The old adage goes far beyond the truth in assert- 
ing that “ where there’s a will there always is a way.” 
There is sometimes a very strong and earnest will, and 
no way at all. But this was not exactly Jessie’s case, 
for a way occurred to her which she herself would nev- 
er have thought of, and still less desired. 

Jessie sprained her ankle. A very delicate and beau- 
tifully-rounded ankle it was ; but in its swollen and dis- 
colored state, so intolerably painful, that Jessie cared no 
more who bound it up, or who bathed it with lotion, than 
if there had been no choice of human beings whatever in 
the world. 

Some persons, it is said, do actually feel more pain than 
others from the same cause. Most certainly Jessie was 
one who either felt it very much, or had very little com- 
mand over her own feehngs ; for she not only dreaded 
pain, but hated it, and threw herself into strange passions 
of anger and grief when she had to endure it, as if a. sort 
of wrong had been inflicted along with the suffering. 
This might in part arise from the extreme rarity of the 
sensation of pain in her case. A cut finger, the sting 
of a bee, and once a fit of earache, were about the worst 
physical calamities that Jessie had ever known ; and they 
were each spoken of with horror, as if most terrible to 
endure. 

JVbio Jessie was really in pain — there could be no 


THE SECEET. 


271 


doubt about that, for the sprain was a very severe one ; 
and though the identical Dr. Thompson, of whom she had 
thought so much, now sat beside her, endeavoring to 
soothe her irritation both of body and mind, she appear- 
ed wholly insensible to his presence. Kay, she even at- 
tempted, once or twice, to push him away when he ap- 
proached her foot ; and frowned, and pouted, and cried, 
behaving altogether as disagreeably as she could, very 
much like a spoiled child — for such, indeed, she was — 
wholly absorbed in her own sensations. 

“ Cousin J ane has done for herself now,” said one of 
the daughters of the family, when she came down to her 
mother, after peeping into the room, and^ hearing her 
cousin alternately 'scolding and crying. “The doctor 
will scold her finely, won’t he, mamma ?” 

“ She certainly deserves it,” said the mother. “ But 
the doctor is very kind.” 

“ I know he scolded me,” said the girl, “ when I cried 
about my tooth; and you can not think how Cousin 
Jessie is going on.” 

“ She is very foolish, my dear. I hope you will learn 
a lesson, and never be like her.” 

“ I wish I was like her.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because every one admires her so, and she is so very, 
very pretty.” 

“ I think the doctor won’t admire her much, unless she 
can conduct herself a little more reasonably.” 

“Ko, certainly; but the doctor is so strict. Don’t 
you think him so, mamma ?” 

“ I think he is one of the last persons I should like to 
see me behave foolishly.” 

And thus the mother and child went on chatting to- 
gether, picturing to themselves and to one another, with 
what annoyed and angry looks the doctor would come 


272 


CHAPTEES OK WIVES. 


down stairs, and how low Cousin Jessie would sink in 
his esteem; when, to their great astonishment, down 
came the doctor, looking rather more pleased than usual. 
It is true he could not speak of his patient without a lit- 
tle quiet sort of laugh, which they might construe into 
contempt if they liked. But he gave as many orders to 
he attended to as if the case was one of life or death ; 
and even suggested some means for quieting the mind 
of the patient, which the lady of the house considered 
wholly unnecessary, and nothing less than absurd. 

The fact was, the doctor had been much more enter- 
tained than annoyed. There was not a turn, nor move- 
ment, nor aUsolute distortion in the whole of Jessie’s 
frame which had rendered her otherwise than perfectly 
beautiful to him ; and, as such, how could she really vex 
him ? for he was human, and a man. Partly out of j^ity 
for her present sufferings, and partly as he thought from 
curiosity, he felt that he should hke to see how she would 
look when perfectly at rest. And so he labored with 
more than common assiduity to bring about this inter- 
esting result. But it was strange for a good man, as he 
was, how little he thought about the want of patience or 
fortitude in his patient, the want of gratitude, or, indeed, 
the want of many other virtues which ought to have been 
much more conspicuous than they were. 

No ; Jessie was a charming picture — a fine study even 
for an anatomist ; and it is questionable whether the doc- 
tor enjoyed putting together his old bones quite as much 
as before the accident. At all events, he was often in 
attendance upon his patient ; and by degrees, as Jessie’s 
pain abated, she became sensible of what a pitiful specta- 
cle she must have been making of herself in the eyes of 
the very man whose admiration she had previously been 
so determined to command. 

Dr. Thompson was altogether a very different person 


THE SECRET. 


273 


from what Jessie had imagined him. At least, he was 
different to her ; for now he was sometimes both anima- 
ted and jocose, and very pleasantly he seemed to he amus- 
ing himself in her society, now diversifying his profes- 
sional discourse with a little raillery, and then with a 
little plain-speaking, or even fault-finding, just as middle- 
aged gentlemen will often amuse themselves with girls 
of ten or twelve years old. But all the while a sagacious 
observer might have seen that a strong under current 
of tenderness, and even interest, was suggesting a great- 
er number of remedies than ever were tried upon a 
sprained ankle before, with an amount of ingenious care- 
taking quite out of proportion to the requirements of the 
case. 

The family did not like this, of course. They thought 
the doctor was doing all he could farther to spoil one 
who had all her life been a great deal too much indulged. 
Sometimes they thought he surely must be making game 
of his patient, in order to convince her more clearly in 
the end how foolish she had been ; while at other times 
they thought the doctor — their wise doctor — must abso- 
lutely have lost his senses, so totally different was his 
treatment of this case, in its moral aspect, from any thing 
they could have anticipated. 

“Really, my dear,” said the lady of the house to her 
husband one night, “ I do begin to think this nonsense 
about Jessie and the doctor will come to some conclusion, 
such as I never should have thought possible.” 

“ What conclusion do you mean ?” 

“ I mean that he will fall in love with her.” 

“N^onsense indeed! You women are always conjur- 
ing up some absurdity of that kind.” 

“Well, we shall see. I should have said at one time 
it was absurd ; but what do you think he has ordered 
for her now 


M2 


274 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


“I don’t know, and I don’t care. If a man likes to 
make a fool of himself, let him. If he likes to marry her 
even — ” 

“ Marry her ! Why, that would be madness in them 
both. They have not a single idea in common.” 

“ And what of that ? People don’t marry for ideas. 
You don’t know but they will make the happiest couple 
in Larchfield some day.” 

“ I think I do, though. If I know any thing, I know 
that such a marriage could bring nothing but misery to 
both.” 

“ I can only answer in your own words — we shall see. 
But, for the present, do let me sleep. The doctor is a 
good man, and sensible. He might possibly make some- 
thing out of Jessie after all.” 

“Never!” said the wife, a little piqued at her hus- 
band’s want of interest in so momentous a subject, and 
so trying to console herself with the last word before 
she also slept ; and well was it for her husband that one 
word sufficed for this amiable purpose. That was easily 
conceded, and the gentleman was soon oblivious; but 
the lady pondered a little longer upon the strange con- 
tradictions incident to human nature, and to the nature 
of man in particular. 

With regard to the gossip of the place, as it related to 
Jessie and the doctor, the aunt had entirely held herself 
aloof, not choosing, from motives of delicacy, to appear 
to understand what w^as talked about, and feeling, be- 
sides, a little scandalized at its. extreme folly. Now she 
began to think how deeply she herself and her family 
w^ould be implicated in this absurdity, should it assume 
any definite character, quite forgetting, as women are apt 
to do when a very pretty girl becomes the choice of a 
very wise man, that the match, if it suits the parties most 
concerned, has no right, on the simple ground of its in- 
equality, to vex any one else. 


THE SECRET. 


275 


When Jessie Williams came down again, and joined 
the circle of her uncle’s family, she appeared to all the 
household altered somewhat for the better ; very much 
pleased with herself, it is true, but yet more pleased 
wdth others than she had seemed before, and a little — 
just a little grateful for what was done for her. She 
sjioke but seldom of the doctor now, yet always so man- 
aged as to be in a little back sitting-room at the time of 
his call. And it was observed, too, that these calls were 
more frequent and more prolonged than the case of a 
sprained ankle, now so near recovery, could possibly re- 
quire. 

At last the truth came out — strange truth ! — and most 
exciting to the inhabitants of Larchfield, both old and 
young. Dr. Thompson was the accepted lover of his late 
patient, and Jessie was going home to prepare for her 
marriage. 


CHAPTER III. 

Was ever couple launched upon the sea of life with so 
little probability of steering the same way ? Ah ! but 
the wise ones say the gentleman must steer. Only think 
how much older he is — how much more experienced ! 
What a child the wife is compared with him, and how 
ignorant of the world ! 

Ignorant indeed! Jessie did not care to know any 
thing now but that her husband loved her. She asked 
no questions about his family relations, parentage, or 
previous life. Her father had made all due inquiries re- 
specting the character, position, and professional income 
of the doctor in the town of Larchfield — that was 
enough ; for he had lived there many years, and noth- 
ing could be more satisfactory than the answers received. 
So the marriage had taken place with entire approbation 


276 


CHAPTEKS ON WIVES. 


on the part of all Jessie’s home connections, and with the 
most implicit belief in a future of perfect happiness on 
her own. 

Among the relations who attended the celebration of 
this, auspicious event, and who of course discussed the 
subject in all its phases, was a little maiden aunt of Jes- 
sie’s from Bath, who, somehow or other, in talking these 
matters over, got the name of Thompson upon her tongue, 
and would not let it rest. 

It was such a common name, they all told her — why 
need she perplex herself about it ? 

“Well, that might be,” said the lady; but still her 
maid Rebecca had an uncle — 

Here the good woman was usually silenced, no one 
caring to hear more ; nor, indeed, was she herself partic- 
ularly clear as to what Rebecca’s uncle could tell of a 
young man of the name of Thompson, once living as an 
assistant with a medical gentleman in the city of Bath. 
So the little lady went on without exciting the slightest 
interest in any of her hearers, repeating the name of 
“ Thompson — Thompson” with a frequent “ Dear me !” 
as if the tail of what she was trying to catch had just 
slipped out of her fingers. And nobody thought any 
thing more about what she might have to say, even if the 
lost hold should ever be recovered, so absorbed were all 
in the marriage itself, and in the “ strangeness of it,” as 
all said who knew the parties best. 

The housekeeper, who had served Dr. Thompson long 
and faithfully, thought it strange indeed when a beauti- 
ful young creature came and took the keys out of her 
hands, and then left them about, one here and another 
there, as if locks were of no value. She thought it 
strange when this same beautiful creature rushed into 
the doctor’s private room without once knocking at the 
door, as she did twenty times a day, and met with no re- 


THE SECEET. 


277 


buke. She thought it strange when the doctor left off 
his “ conjuring,” as she called it, let out his study fire 
with all those little earthen pots about it, wliich nobody 
might touch, and thrust his dry bones into a drawer, and 
went out into the garden with this young creature to 
eat cherries, actually climbing into a tree to gather them 
for her. Indeed, it seemed to her, the housekeeper said, 
while she went from room to room tidying up after the 
young lady, as if the world was turning all upside down ; 
and she wondered, for her part, what would come next. 

That quiet honeymoon, spent chiefly in their own home 
— that honeymoon upon which the old woman looked so 
querulously, was a very happy one to the parties most 
concerned. But we refrain, purposely and on principle, 
from describing more of married life than lies, as it were, 
on the surface, to be seen or heard by any who may hap- 
pen to be present. Beyond this we have no business 
and no wish to penetrate ; and, consequently, much of 
that interchange of affection which constitutes the true 
solace of married life must be imagined. Only it is nec- 
essary, for the progress of this story, to understand how 
these two individuals, embarking in the most serious af- 
fairs of life together, thought it quite sufficient that each 
loved the other, without making any reference to prin- 
ciples, or even habits, so far as to judge how each might 
be affected by the other’s peculiarities of character for 
the future. 

That the young bride should not do this was perfectly 
natural. She had married a man reputed to be wise and 
good, who loved her most devotedly ; and for the rest 
she trusted every thing to him. But that a man of more 
than mature age — a man of observation, reflection, and 
experience — that he should do this ! Well, perhaps that 
was natural too. For, after all, J essie was not only beau- 
tiful, but a good deal more than that, if she had only 


278 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


known it ; and where her best feelings were called into 
play — or rather, we ought to say, her worst kept down, 
for she had not come to her best yet — she was by no 
means an uninteresting companion, and could make her- 
self as pleasant and as winning as she was handsome. 

In fact, the marriage of Jessie and the doctor Was es- 
sentially a love match, if ever there was one. They had 
actually fallen in love with each other, a thing so out of 
date in the present day that it seems like going back to 
l^oah, and his sons, and his sons’ wives, to speak of it. 
Yet so far as ignoring all else — asking no questions — 
looking neither backward nor forward — living only for 
the present moment, and resolving all questions into the 
one supreme consideration, “ Am I loved as I am lov- 
ing?” — so far as this went, the happy couple might in- 
deed be said to have entered into this indissoluble union 
under that auspicious combination of circumstances 
which used formerly to be called falling in love ; and for 
some time it would have been difficult to say which of 
the two was most absorbed in the present, or wffiich felt 
the smallest amount of apprehension about what might 
lie beyond. 

From this pleasant dream the husband was, of course, 
the first to awake ; not that he had less afiection, but a 
higher sense of duty than his wife. There came a sea- 
son of trying sickness in the place where they lived. An 
unusually wet autumn, attended with a distressing epi- 
demic, was followed by a hard winter, and great sufier- 
ing among the poor. So the doctor had need to rouse 
himself, and he did so with all his wonted energy and 
consideration. On him had hitherto devolved the or- 
ganization of public charities, wdth the most onerous 
part of all those social regulations which such seasons 
of distress require, in order to keep the rich sufficiently 
alive to the claims of their suffering and needy neighbors. 


THE SECRET. 


279 


It would bo worse than useless to enter again into the 
small gossip of the little town of Larchfield, or to at- 
tempt to gather up into any moderate compass the vari- 
ety of opinions, surmises, and conclusions, arising out of 
the doctor’s marriage. Like any other nine days’ won- 
der, however, even that passed away from its place of 
prominence in public opinion — driven out by the circum- 
stance already described in that visitation of sickness, 
which called almost every one to some point of interest 
or some sphere of duty nearer home. The only neces- 
sity for alluding to this gossip at all was to show how 
this one influence, among many others, oj)erated, in all 
probability, upon the doctor’s character, so as to make 
him the man he was — open to hear all that his neighbors 
might choose to tell him, and to help them where he 
could, but never by any act of his own, not even by cas- 
ual inadvertence, laying his own personal affairs open to 
their inspection. 

So long, indeed, had this habit of the doctor’s been 
practiced toward his neighbors, that it had become a 
kind of second nature ; and had he married a woman of 
even ordinary curiosity, he would have been compelled 
to turn over a new leaf altogether, or to exercise a de- 
gree of authority in guarding his own affairs which 
might not have been altogether conducive to domestic 
harmony. As it was, although Jessie seemed to con- 
sider herself free to come and go wherever her husband 
might be, yet she went about in so unobservant a man- 
ner, her eyes so entirely closed to every thing beyond 
herself and him, and the measure or the manner of his 
affection for her, that it was no more intrusion to the 
doctor when his handsome young wife came and stood 
beside him, leaning over the back of his chair, or some- 
times even snatching the pen out of his hand in order to 
claim his undivided attention, than it was for his favor- 


280 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


ite dog to come and lie down at his feet, or his old priv- 
ileged cat to purr on the table beside him. 

It was most satisfactory to the doctor that Jessie nev- 
er asked questions, nor troubled herself in any way about 
his affairs, so long as he was often near her, and petted 
and praised her as if she could never do wrong. That 
which the doctor had most dreaded in the married state 
was a meddling, inquisitive wife. For all the more seri- 
ous and important purposes of life he was sufficient to 
himself. ISTo woman, he thought, could help him. lie 
never asked himself that other question — whether he 
could help a woman ? He could love her ! What could 
she possibly want more ? 

So when the great epidemic came, and the doctor had 
to bestir himself, often being out both night and day, 
and only coming home for a little hasty refreshment, 
Jessie began to feel the vacant hours hanging rather 
heavily upon her hands, and had enough to do to keep 
tolerably cheerful. Indeed, her husband, when he did 
come, not unfrequently found her in tears. Jessie could 
weep easily, and without the slightest disfigurement — a 
great charm in women ; so he had only to kiss off the 
tears, which he did very readily, and praise her beauty, 
until she smiled again. And then he was gone, and she 
was consoled for a little while. 

Once being roused into his former activity, and enter- 
ing again into all the excitement of practical and efficient 
work, which the doctor loved so well, he did not feel 
quite disposed to fall back into the indolence and, as it 
seemed to him now, the worthlessness of his previous 
state. It is not an easy thing to change altogether the 
habits and tastes of a man of the doctor’s age. He had, 
it is true, slipped aside for a happy moment from the 
great high road of life, to loiter, and gather flowers, and 
listen to the woodland songs ; but the battle and the stir 


THE SECEET. 


281 


of life were for him, and he sprang back again to his old 
duties with as much interest as some men spring from 
duty to enjoyment. 

Thus when the sickness had abated, when the gloomy 
winter was giving place to spring, and the poor were 
finding work, and all things were returning to their ac- 
customed condition of moderate comfort and prosperity 
— even then, when that happy period arrived, to which 
Jessie looked forward as to the time that would restore 
her husband to her, she found him so often engaged in 
business belonging to the town, as well as in his own 
scientific pursuits, which he now resumed with great 
avidity, that her married lot looked a good deal changed 
since first she entered upon its peaceful enjoyments. 
And she began to wonder each day at the strange sad- 
ness which haunted her like a spectre, taking its place 
opposite to her at table when her husband was away, 
sitting up with her at night when she waited for his re- 
turn, and, worse than all, lying down with her in her 
husband’s vacant place when she cried herself to sleep 
without him. 

It was plain that Jessie ought never to have been a 
doctor’s wife — not to mention Dr. Thompson in particu- 
lar. She had no pursuits — she had never cared for any, 
only as they procured for her something that she want- 
ed. Her reading was scarcely of a kind to occupy her 
thoughts, for even in this occupation she scarcely ever 
lost her self-consciousness. That was an ever-present 
companion, which no experience through which she had 
yet passed had enabled her to leave behind. 

Alas ! for those who marry for love alone, without any 
other aim, intellectual, or even ordinarily social. Jessie 
had never learned to take an interest in what her hus- 
band thought or did — only in himself. She scarcely 
cared to ask, and so he never told her, what occupied 


282 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


him, and kept him away from her. Still less did he 
speak to her about the objects of scientific investigation 
on which his heart was set, and resj^ecting which he 
cherished the exulting hope that he was about to make 
some grand discovery, not unlikely to result in lasting 
benefit to mankind. On all these points he w^as silent to 
his wife, or only touched upon them in a casual manner, 
as things in no way concerning her. He did not even 
tell her of the poor whom he visited, nor try to get her 
out on errands of kindness among her suffering neigh- 
bors. He would not have her name on any committee 
of usefulness. He thought he knew her too well to sup- 
pose she could possibly be in her place there ; and he 
laughed to himself when he pictured his beautiful Jessie 
so circumstanced. Besides which, he did not want her 
ever to be absent when he came home, still less roaming 
about the streets and lanes by herself. She w^as too 
young and too handsome, he thought, for that. N’o, 
no; he must try to be more at home himself, and so 
bring back her smiles and roses; for Jessie was begin- 
ning to look a little less healthy and robust than former- 
ly, partly, no doubt, from want of occupation and exer- 
cise, and partly from fretting so much Tvhen she was left 
alone. 

Could any thing have been devised for the young wfife 
actually to do, many of these sad feelings would have 
been spared her. But the old housekeeper was very 
clever, and knew all about Avhat was wanted. Besides, 
Jessie had no taste for housekeeping, and hers was ex- 
actly that physical condition which, Avhen not compelled 
to exertion, sinks into absolute indolence. And indolent 
indeed she was — moody, moping, almost miserable. 

Mere sensation, the pleasure or the pain of the moment, 
had so much weight with Jessie, that for some time she 
had scarcely reflected on the position she was placed in 


THE SECRET. 


283 


at all. She on\j felt its loneliness, and cried like a child 
because the only being she cared for in the Avorld did 
not come when she wished for him. After a while, how- 
ever, J essie did begin to think, for she was no natural 
fool, though, without doubt, far enough from being wise ; 
and the tenor of her thoughts ran thus : 

“ I am nothing but a plaything to him, after all. He 
amuses himself with me, but he lives with other people. 
He has a world for the exercise of his fine thoughts and 
talents, which I never enter, I am shut up like a caged 
bird, to trim my feathers, and warble if I will ; to peck 
from his hand, and receive all I have from him ; and 
then he goes away into his great, grand world, and I am 
nothing.” 

J essie was not far wrong in this picture of herself, and 
she felt its truth the more when, one day after receiving 
a letter which she saw the housekeeper place in her mas- 
ter’s hand, he told her that he had occasion to make a 
little journey, which would not, however, keep him many 
days from home. 

Jessie asked where he was going. 

He hesitated a moment, and then said, “ To Brighton.” 

‘‘What an immense way!” exclaimed Jessie. “Can 
you not take me with you ? I never saw Brighton.” 

The doctor frowned, and looked rather uncomfortable. 

“ My love,” he said hurriedly, “ I am going on urgent 
business. It is quite impossible that I should take you.” 

“Oh, do let me go !” said Jessie again. “ I am so dull 
here !” And she burst into tears. 

Her husband drew his arm round her, and kissed her, 
she fancied not quite so tenderly as usual. He soon re- 
laxed his hold, and turning sharply to the housekeeper, 
bade her put up for him a few things in his portmanteau. 
After which he went out to visit some of his patients, 
came back late in the evening, rummaged among a file 


284 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


of papers, took a hasty leave of his wife, and went off by 
the night mail to London. 

In addition to the misery of her loneliness, and the pain 
she had suffered from her husband’s hurried and some- 
what absolute manner, J essie felt that in the secret of 
her heart she was becoming a little afraid of him — not 
afraid in the way of manifesting her tenderness, but 
rather afraid of him as a kind of stranger, who only vis- 
ited her at times in her little narrow region of domestic 
love, but went out to expend the strength of his charac- 
ter — its real height and depth — elsewhere. The man 
who came back like a wandering knight to her bower, 
she could not fear ; but the man who went forth clad in 
strange armor, who went, where she could not follow 
him, and returned from people and places all unknown 
to her — him she did almost fear, because she could not 
penetrate that other life which he was leading, so widely 
was it separated from her own. 

And thus it must ever be where there is no union but 
that of love — no sharing of high hopes or deep responsi- 
bilities — no sharing even of the labors and resources of 
the mind, so that each, though ever so widely separated 
from the other personally, and for a while, may yet bring 
home their different treasures for a mutual feast. No, 
the woman who is only loved must often be lonely, un- 
less, indeed, she is wholly destitute of mind, and thus in- 
capable of any other vocation. She will often be liable 
to become afraid of her husband, too ; for though perfect 
love casteth out fear, the love here described is not per- 
fect — far otherwise. 

The great joy of receiving her husband back again, 
after an absence of a few days, was so much to Jessie 
that she failed, at first, to detect any thing but the same 
pleasure on his part. Indeed, he also was delighted to 
be again seated in his own chair, beside his own pleasant 


THE SECRET. 


285 


hearth, with his young wife beside him ; and for a while 
there was no want between them of mutual expressions 
of tenderness, and of rejoicing over their reunion. 

As the evening passed on, however, Jessie began to 
think her husband more absent or more absorbed in 
thought than usual, and in his face there was a slight in- 
dication of discontent, which she did not like to see, be- 
cause, as it did not in any way relate to her, it proved 
too plainly that his thoughts were wandering from her ; 
and perhaps it proved, also, that some other person had 
the power to vex him more than she had just then the 
power to please. 

It must be understood of Jessie that she was capable, 
in no ordinary degree, of the feeling of jealousy. Rival- 
ry is the twin sister of jealousy ; and it was rivalry alone 
which had stimulated her to work hard at school, in or- 
der to stand first among her companions. It was rival- 
ry which subsequently made her a coquette. But there 
must be no rivalry now — not even a thought of her hus- 
band’s stolen away from her, if she could prevent it. So 
she looked at his grave face as he sat watching the fire 
within the bars of the grate, until at last she said, 

“ Has any one vexed you while you were away ?” 

A sudden turn of her husband’s face toward her, so 
quick that it made her start, and a most unusual flash of 
his deep-set eyes, convinced Jessie that this was the 
kind of question it would be wiser for her not to ask 
again. 

Very soon afterward the doctor rose from his chair, 
said he was thoroughly warmed and refreshed, and would 
go out for an hour before bedtime to see one of his pa- 
tients whom he had left very ill. 


286 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was almost impossible for a young wife, situated 
like Jessie, not to be sometimes a little teasing with that 
love which she thought so much about. In fact, she had 
nothing else to live upon ; no mental food — no physical 
exertion — nothing but that. A man who does not w^ant 
to be so teased should take care to supply his wife with 
something to think about and something to do. The 
doctor was first teased, and then at times a little tired — 
it was in the nature of things that he should be so. The 
next thing was to absent himself a little more, to live 
more apart, mentally as well as personally ; and to keep 
his thoughts and feelings, if possible, more hidden than 
before. 

An idle, loving, petted wife is a very difficult subject, 
for a man who is thus disposed, to have to deal with. 
Poor Jessie, with her heart ever hungering after evi- 
dences of afiection, and her fancy ever harping on the 
old string, “ Am I loved as I am loving ?” was not to be 
put off in this way. Her beauty and her charms, and 
the empire they had obtained for her, were not made 
to give place to anatomical investigations or chemical 
analysis ; not even to the requirements of the Board of 
Health, nor to strictures upon sewerage — all-important 
as these might be to others. They were nothing to her. 
The whole world, with its multitudinous wants and woes, 
was nothing in comparison with the one great want of 
her heart, to be the first and only occupant of her hus- 
band’s regard, and the one great woe of finding that she 
was not so. 

In proportion as the doctor tried to absent himself a 


THE SECKET. 


287 


little more, even at home, so as to pursue his favorite 
studies without interruption, and found his intentions 
often frustrated, he became somewhat captious and peev- 
ish at times; so there grew to be lovers’ quarrels be- 
tween the two — made up again, however, by warmer 
love and tenderer expressions than before. But this 
also grew a little wearisome to the man, who had so 
much to do that he sought only rest and peace at home. 
So there was nothing for it but to speak more plainly to 
J essie, in order that his tune and patience might not 
both be eventually trifled away. Thus it was made 
known to her, gently and kindly it is true, but yet with 
considerable emphasis and decision, that a doctor’s study 
was not the place for her ; that he must consequently 
beg of her always to knock when she wished to speak to* 
him ; and perhaps, if she could leave him there a little 
more alone, it might be better for them both. 

The doctor said this with his eyes averted, for he felt 
very uncomfortable at having it to say. It was well he 
did so. Those large, dark, passionate eyes of Jessie’s 
would have terrified him, had he looked round. The 
rich warm blood that circled so healthily throughout 
her frame rushed up to her cheeks and her temples, until 
her face felt for a moment in a blaze. The long-drawn 
breath she took was not a sigh — it was a gasp. She 
was going to answer in a perfect storm of indignation, 
but that there was a choking in her throat which stop- 
ped all utterance ; and yet she would not cry — not she ! 

The doctor went into his study without once looking 
back; and Jessie never had to be told a second time 
that she must knock at the door if she wanted him, but 
had better not intrude upon his privacy at all. 

With all passionate natures — at least, in women — 
there comes a terrible revulsion of feeling after any fit 
of anger or excitement. Under these circumstances Jes- 


288 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


sie had lately shown symptoms of hysterical tendencies, 
and while thus affected, old Mabel, the housekeeper, was 
very kind to her, only kind in a peculiar way. On the 
present occasion, when Jessie had rushed up stairs and 
thrown herself on her bed, weeping bitterly, Mabel, who 
had seen her face as she came out of the room where her 
husband had left her, and partly from that, and partly 
from her master’s manner, had formed her own conclu- 
sions, went quietly up stairs, pretending to have some- 
thing to do in the room where her young mistress lay 
weeping so passionately that she neither saw nor heard 
her enter. The first thing Jessie was sensible of, beyond 
her own grief, was that a hand was laid upon her shoul- 
der ; and, looking up, she saw that Mabel had brought 
her the only remedy for sorrow which her practical no- 
tions of kindness suggested — a strong dose of hot brandy 
and water, which she first persuaded her mistress to sip, 
and then to swallow down altogether. 

‘‘I wouldn’t take on so if I was you,” said Mabel. 
“ Master gets worried.” 

“Who worries him?” asked Jessie, feeling a little 
strengthened by Mabel’s medicine. 

“ A deal o’ folks,” was the only answer she elicited. 

But, from some cause or other, in a few minutes more 
she did not seem to care so very much — she did not 
care very much about any thing, in fact — but wiped the 
tears from her cheeks, composed her hair, adjusted her 
pillow, and fell fast asleep. 

“Well, it is something,” thought Jessie, “to be able 
to sleep a while, and so forget one’s trouble.” But it 
came again after she had risen, though not quite so 
acutely ; and, dressing herself with a good deal of care, 
she went down to spend the evening with her husband, 
looking, he thought, more beautiful than ever ; for there 
was the weight of recent tears upon her long eyelashes. 


THE SECRET. 


289 


making them look darker, and that brilliant flush in her 
checks which he had begun to fear she was losing. 

So days and weeks passed on, and Jessie grew more 
hysterical, instead of less so, under Mabel’s treatment. 
She was ashamed of it herself, but either tried in the 
wrong way, or did not try sufficiently, to prevent the fits 
coining on. Mabel alone knew how frequent and dis- 
tressing they were; for Jessie did not tell her husband 
always how she had been affected. He saw for himself 
that she was suffering from loneliness ; but it never oc- 
curred to him that want of occupation was her worst 
disease, and that talents and energies entirely without 
exercise were inducing a condition little better than in- 
sanity. Strange infatuation! He was a doctor, and 
would have known this in any other person’s case ; but 
his beautiful young wife was, in his eyes, so peculiar, so 
entirely set apart, so exclusively his own, to be cherish- 
ed, comforted, and cared for' by him — her office, he con- 
ceived, was so entirely that of loving him, that the ac- 
customed remedies were in no way applicable in her 
case, if indeed, there could be any need for them. The 
one wish of his heart — indeed, of both their hearts — w^as 
for children, and then Jessie would have enough to do; 
but this blessing not being granted them, why, he must 
pet her and soothe her, dear child, and try to get her out 
of these melancholy moods. 

In order to supply, in some degree, the great want of 
her heart and home, Jessie thought sometimes she would 
r#dopt a child ; but then she might afterward have chil- 
dren of her own, and how she should hate such an in- 
truder then 1 Besides which, she did not think she ever 
could really love another person’s child. Indeed, she had 
been very sparing of her love since the time of her mar- 
riage. So absorbed had she been in the mutual inter- 
ests of herself and her husband, that she had repelled 


290 


CHAPTEES OIT WIVES. 


all advances toward intimacy from the friends and ac- 
quaintances who composed the social circle of which she 
ought properly to have constituted a part. Of these some 
were offended, others ceased to care ; while the few with 
whom she kept up a sort of formal visiting found her so 
profoundly indifferent to all their personal or domestic 
matters, that they ceased to take interest in hers. They 
supposed the doctor was happy with her ; but, for their 
parts, they shrugged their shoulders, and turned to more 
amusing topics of conversation. 

At last J essie hit upon a scheme herself Her health 
she thought was failing. You w^ould scarcely have sup- 
posed so to look at her, and the doctor absolutely laugh- 
ed when she asked his professional aid. Still, with her 
frequent hysterical attacks, and perhaps a little in conse- 
quence of Mabel’s patent nostrums, Jessie certainly had 
some indescribable sinkings .and strange sensations, 
which occupied her thoughts a good deal, seeming, in 
some sort, to help to fill that dreadful void which was 
becoming almost intolerable ; and so being, as, alas ! a 
morbid apprehension about ill health not unfrequently 
is, a little more amusing than just nothing at all. 

So one day, when Jessie sat alone with her husband, 
she plucked up her courage, and said, 

“ I think I should like to have a companion. What 
do you think? Some nice kind of young woman, who 
would sit with me when I wanted her, and not mind be- 
ing sent out of the room when I did not.” 

The doctor looked very earnestly at his wife, but said 
nothing. 

“You do not answer me,” said Jessie. 

“ It is too serious a question to be answered at once.” 

“But will you think about it? You see I get so 
much weaker. 'Now don’t laugh, for I really do.” 

“ I see you are very lonely, poor child, and I wish it 


THE SECEET, 


291 


could be otherwise ; but we might bring a person into 
the family who would be a terrible annoyance.” 

“We could send her away in that case.” 

“Not quite so easily as you think, perhaps.” 

“ You will think about it, then ?” 

“ I will ; only promise me one thing.” 

“ I will.” 

“ That it shall never be a cause of bitterness or disun- 
ion between us.” 

“ How should it ?” 

“ Nay, I don’t know. Only such schemes sometimes 
do end in bitterness and disunion.” 

“ But I don’t want a person to care for at all — not 
even one who will expect to be cared for.” 

The doctor smiled a little at the pleasant life his wife’s 
companion would have of it on such terms. He said no 
more, however, just then, but went away with his mind 
full of deep and stirring thoughts, which so hung about 
him as to make him more than usually grave and silent 
during the few days which intervened before his wife 
spoke again about the companion, and how necessary 
she believed it to be for her health and spirits that she 
should have some one about her with whom she could 
exchange a few words now and then, instead of being 
left so much alone. 

The doctor was far from being displeased at having 
the subject renewed ; for he also had been thinking of 
the same thing, almost to the exclusion of all others ; 
and not being particularly occupied one evening, he 
thought he would give up an hour or two in order to 
talk the matter fairly over. 

“You are really in earnest, then?” said he to his 
wife. 

“ Indeed I am,” she replied ; “ but the great difficulty 
is where to find the sort of person I want.” 


292 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


“ What is it that you do want 

“ Oh ! very little — only a nice, kind young person, who 
will attach herself to me, and be very faithful and devoted, 
without being ever obtrusive.” 

“ And you ? What will you be to her 

“Very kind, of course.” 

“ And very considerate ?” 

“ I don’t know about that. I shall expect the consid- 
eration to come from her.” 

“ All on one side then, it seems. In that case, how is 
your companion to attach herself to you ?” 

“ You seem very particular that she should be consid- 
ered. Pray do you know any one who would suit me ?” 

“What if I do ?” 

“ If you do, pray tell me all you know. I feel quite 
impatient to have this matter settled.” 

“ Will you leave the settling of it to me, Jessie ?” 

“Perhaps it would be better that I should. You know 
I don’t like trouble. And then I see so very few people. 
I am sure I should never find any one by myself. Come, 
then, you are a good soul, and much wiser than I am. 
You shall help me over this difficulty, and find me a com- 
panion.” 

“ And you will promise to be satisfied, if I do ?” 

“ I will promise to try to be satisfied. I think that is 
all you can expect.” 

“ Certainly. Only you must, indeed you must, be a 
little kind and considerate besides. Think of some poor 
young creature, perhaps an orphan, brought here among 
strangers.” 

“ And a very nice thing it would be, in my opinion, 
for any poor orphan. However, I will promise you to 
be very good and very kind, if you will but find the right 
person.” 

“ As good and as kind as you would like any lady to 


THE SECRET. 


293 


be with whom you might place a daughter of your own, 
if you had one?” 

“ You put the case so strongly. I am a good mistress 
to my servants, am I not ?” 

“ Ah ! but I want you to be more like a mother to this 
young girl.” 

“ Then you have one actually in your mind ?” 

“I have.” 

“ Do tell me all about her, then. What age is she ? 
What is she like ? — a lady, or a common person ?” 

“I have never told you, up to this time, Jessie, that I 
have a young girl under my care — a ward — and that it 
is now my duty to place this girl out somewhere.” 

“ Is she a relation ?” 

“ Why, yes — a sort of relation.” 

“ An orphan ?” 

“ Her mother died when she was very young.” 

“ And her father ?” 

“ Her father ? — that is a painful subject. You must 
never speak to her about her father if she comes to live 
here.” 

“ I dare say I shall never wish to do so. Her father 
won’t trouble me, unless he should follow her here.” 

“ Rest assured about that ; he will never trouble you. 
In that respect you will be perfectly safe in taking this 
young person into the family, for she has very few re- 
lations living, and none who do any thing for her but 
myself.” 

Jessie was surprised to find so little objection on her 
husband’s part to this scheme of hers ; perhaps surprised, 
also, at the nature of the few objections which he did 
bring forward ; and perhaps, had the whole truth been 
told, the readiness with which he fell in with her plan 
gave rise tb a certain feeling of disappointment in her 
mind, which she would have found it difficult to explain. 


294 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


She had imagined that a third person added to their 
family could scarcely be looked upon by her husband in 
any other light than that of an intruder ; yet, to her as- 
tonishment, he began almost at once to interest himself 
in those household arrangements which were necessary 
for the change ; and he did so with a degree of cheerful- 
ness and alacrity which somewhat piqued her self-love. 
“ As if he had actually grown tired of my comjDany alone,” 
she said; and it is just possible that this interest on her 
husband’s part took off a little from the cordiality of the 
welcome with which Jessie had intended to receive her 
companion. 

Of course there was considerable curiosity, on the part 
of the wife, to know more about this anticipated inmate 
of her household; but her inquiries elicited, very little 
more from her husband than that the age of the young 
person was scarcely seventeen, her education that of a 
gentlewoman, and beyond this, that she was delicate — 
the doctor feared very delicate. 

This last piece of information was communicated after 
the most important arrangements had been made, or Jes- 
sie would have decidedly objected to a delicate compan- 
ion — any thing but that. A girl who required looking 
after and taking care of would never do for her. 

“ You forget that I am a doctor,” said her husband, in 
answer to these objections, “ and that the responsibility 
will consequently devolve on me, not you.” 

But Jessie was far from being comforted. She want- 
ed to be nursed, and tended, and cared for herself. Her 
idea of a companion w’as a robust sort of person, who 
would never be either ailing or tired — who would read 
to her, work for her, go errands, and do all that sort of 
thing, without taking harm from wind or 'weather — not 
even from late sitting up, or early rising, or any other 
of those irksome duties which Jessie had been pleasing 


THE SECRET. 


295 


herself with the idea that she should henceforward per- 
form by proxy. 

Alas! her pleasant prospect of exemption and relief 
had been sadly spoiled by that word of ill omen, delicate. 
However, as she had only promised her husband to try 
to be satisfied with his choice of a companion, the fact 
of her being delicate might afibrd a reasonable plea for 
getting rid of her. 

So Jessie submitted to her fate, and after some corre- 
spondence between her husband and the “ young person,” 
as Jessie chose to call her, the doctor set out by agree- 
ment to meet her at the last stage before reaching Larch- 
field. 

Jessie felt very nervous and strange about the time 
when, she thought the travelers would be arriving. Ma- 
bel, the housekeeper, seemed to be nervous too. Indeed, 
ever since the plan was divulged to her, she had evinced 
an unusual amount of irritation. “People could please 
themselves,” she kept saying, as she went grumbling 
about the house. “It was no business of hers; but of 
all the schemes she ever heard of!” — and here she would 
stop to scold the kitchen-maid, or find fault with the boy, 
for nothing went right in any department ; and if ever 
the expression, “turned upside down,” was applicable 
to any domestic economy, you would have thought it 
was to that under Mabel’s management, had you heard 
her then. 


CHAPTER Y. 

At last they came. The night was stormy : the wind 
had blown long tendrils of disordered hair about the 
girl’s face, which looked, on first cpming into the lighted 
room, almost as white as snow. She trembled, too, with 
the cold and long traveling, and the doctor bade her go 


296 


CHAPTEKS ON WIVES. 


and warm herself thoroughly at the fire ; but she stood 
back, looking perfectly frightened. He then called the 
housekeeper to show her up stairs ; but, instead of Ma- 
bel, another servant icame ; and all the while Jessie had 
been so painfully struck with the delicate appearance of 
the stranger, as scarcely to have received her with any 
pretense to a welcome. “ A poor, thin ghost of a crea- 
ture !” said Jessie to herself. “ What in the world am I 
to do with her ?” 

There certainly was a somewhat striking contrast be- 
twixt Jessie’s round and comfortable-looking form — her 
glowing color, as it happened to be that night — the com- 
pact arrangement of her rich abundant hair — her dress 
so perfectly adapted and fitting to her figure — and this 
frail-looking, frightened girl, blown about by the winds, 
and altogether bearing the appearance of one who had 
known little of the cheering comforts of a plentiful and 
genial home. 

“ You must remember,” said the doctor to his wife, so 
soon as the stranger had left the room, “ that she has 
been nearly all her life at school.” 

“ I should scarcely have thought it,” said Jessie, rath- 
er sneeringly. “ But I dare say it is cold and miserable 
traveling in this 'weather. Perhaps she will look more 
comfortable after a while.” 

“Jessie,” said her husband, taking hold of both her 
hands, and looking steadily into her face, “ you must try 
to make her comfortable — you must show her how good 
and kind yoij can be.” 

“Beally,” said Jessie, with a peculiar little laugh, 
which means any thing but fun, “ you seem to me to 
have strangely reversed the whole affair of this girl’s 
coming.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ You talk as if you had brought some one here for 


THE SECEET. 297 

me to take care of, instead of some one to take care of 
me.” 

“ Don’t misunderstand me, Jessie. I mean no such 
thing. It is my intention, and I will see it carried out, 
that this ‘ young person,’ as you call her, shall serve you 
in every way that is possible to her, and right toward 
you. Ask what you will of her, lay down her duties to 
any extent that she is capable of, and I will see that your 
wishes are carried out. Beyond this I can do no more 
for you, can I ?” 

Jessie was compelled to be satisfied. At all events, 
she could say no more just then ; for the pale girl came 
down, having arranged her hair, which was really beau- 
tiful, into a mass of ringlets, hanging loosely about her 
neck and temples — a style of hair which Jessie particu- 
larly disliked ; and, in the plainest possible dress of so- 
ber gray, she stole rather than walked into the room, for 
the frightened look was still there, and she scarcely ven- 
tured to answer audibly, even when Jessie condescend- 
ed to ask her about her journey. 

The doctor did his part to reassure the stranger, and 
Jessie might see that whenever the girl did raise her 
eyes, it was to look into his face, as if to read there some 
direction about her behavior which might help her to do 
right. 

By degrees, in this watchful manner, the poor stranger 
seemed to read her way ; but it was only in the pres- 
ence of the doctor that she saw her way at all. Left 
alone with the mistress of the house, she knew neither 
what to say nor what to do, and consequently was con- 
tinually saying and doing the wrong thing ; when, find- 
ing out her mistake, she grew embarrassed, and more 
frightened than before. 

It was impossible that much usefulness, to say noth- 
ing of agreeableness, should be elicited from a young 
N 2 


298 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


girl fresh from school, and thus circumstanced. The 
discipline and economy of a genteel private family were 
entirely new to her ; with the servants of such a family 
she had never come in contact ; while a lady looking the 
picture of health, who required constantly watching, and 
helping, and cherishing, was a phenomenon so wholly 
unaccountable to the girl, that she could only raise her 
wondering eyes askance to take sly glances at Jessie’s 
extreme beauty, without venturing to address her in the 
way of conversation, or even asking her any ordinary 
question. 

Wholly shut up within herself through the greater 
portion of every day, and quite unable to bring any feel- 
ing or faculty of her own to bear upon the circumstances 
around her, there could be no wonder that the sound of 
the doctor’s welcome step in the hall should bring a flush 
of pleasure into the pale, thin face, which had never worn 
the aspect of any kind of expression since he went out 
in the morning ; no wonder either that his fine manly 
voice, as it called “ Lina” on the stairs, should bring a 
light figure flying down the steps to take his coat, his 
gloves, or whatever he might want to get rid of in haste; 
and all this with a look as bright, and an answer as quick 
and cheerful, as if the pale face and the slight figure had 
really a heart belonging to them as warm as any other 
woman’s heart — yes, and warmer than a great many. 

The new-comer was not so dull in her perceptions but 
that she could see plainly she was not giving satisfac- 
tion ; that, in fact, she never could give satisfaction with- 
out learning more of the character and the wishes of the 
lady of the house than seemed possible at present ; while 
Jessie, instead of doing herself justice, was less open and 
agreeable to her companion than to any other person in 
the house. 

Something had evidently gone wrong with the two 


THE SECEET. 


299 


women at the onset of their acquaintance, and they nei- 
ther of them — not even Jessie herself — knew exactly 
what it was. In fact, Jessie was beginning to attribute 
every thing wrong on her part to suffering nerves. 
What unoccupied woman does not? Distressing nerv- 
ous sensations were her constant complaint ; and this it 
was, she said, which made her irritable, restless, and 
weary. How should she be otherwise than weary, hav- 
ing no alternative of work? Idleness — that seeming 
friend, that real tyrant — was already undermining her 
fine constitution, both of mind and body ; and the bitter 
fruits of discontent were threatening to poison all her 
social and domestic pleasures. 

Jessie was not naturally spiteful ; yet no sooner was 
she now left alone with her husband on his return home, 
than she grew eloquent in disparagement of the compan- 
ion he had chosen for her ; and who, she told him plain- 
ly, so far as she was concerned, “ did not do at all, and 
never would do.” 

“ Have you explained to her,” asked the doctor, “ what 
it is that you expect from her ?” 

“ IS^o ; that would be impossible in my state of health. 
I ought to have a person with me who has all the nice 
feeling and the tact to anticipate my wishes, not one who 
requires to be told the merest trifles of the passing mo- 
ment.” 

“ Come, Jessie,” said her husband, looking kindly but 
earnestly into her face, “ be your own better self again. 
Be reasonable, and I know you will soon be happy.” 

“I^ever with that girl!” 

“ Why, she only wants drawing out. I feel sure she 
is both kind and willing, if she did but know what to 
do.” 

“ To you, perhaps, she may be kind and willing.” 

“ Well, you see how I set her to work. I tell her what 
to do, and she does it instantly.” 


300 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


“You have strength and nerve for these things; I 
have not. Besides — 

“ What else ?” 

“ I don’t like her.” 

“Well, that is plain, certainly. Have you any real 
grounds for thinking ill of her ?” 

“ She never looks me full in the face ; but, if I happen 
to turn my head suddenly, I find her staring at me.” 

“Is that any crime, Jessie? I think you must have 
found that other people like to look at you besides this 
poor child.” 

“ Beyond this, there seems to me something sinister 
about her, if not absolutely sly.” 

“ Think of her situation.” 

“ I do, and I consider it a highly privileged one. Don’t 
think, however, that what I say arises out of prejudice. 
Mabel thinks the same, I believe, if she only dared to 
speak her mind.” 

“Mabel is an old — But that is little to the point. 
All that I ask of you, Jessie, is to deal faithfully with the 
girl. In this you do both greater justice to her, and 
greater honor to yourself. I don’t want it to be said of 
you that you are a weak, capricious woman, as I am sure 
it will be if you send this girl away without allowing her 
a fair and honest trial ; and that you can never do with- 
out bestowing a little pains upon teaching her what is 
her duty, and what you expect from her.” 

“ Honestly, then, do you like her ?” 

“What an absurd question, Jessie!” 

“ Not at all. Tell me truly whether you do or not.” 

“ I ! I like her very well. But, you know, there is a 
vast difference betwixt a girl like her and a man of my 
age.” 

“ Yet it seems to me that she understands you better 
than she does me, notwithstanding that difference.” 


THE SECRET. 


301 


“ Perhaps I take more pains to make her understand 
me. But here she comes — along with her my old dog. 
You see, Jessie, she has made friends with him, at any 
rate. I never saw him take to any body so soon before. 
And the cat — I found the cat sitting on her shoulder, 
and the dog lying with his head on her lap, when I came 
home yesterday.” 

“ Where ?” 

“ In my study.” 

“ Your study !” 

“ Yes ; she had the key, because I wanted her to stitch 
up those holes in my table-cover, which I suppose the 
cat must have torn. Well, Lina,” said the doctor, look- 
ing evidently pleased, “ have you attended to the camel- 
lias to-day ? I have been wondering whether the green- 
house windows were opened.” 

“I opened them soon after you were gone, and shut 
them about three o’clock, for the wind grew cold.” 

“His study!” said Jessie to herself; “that sacred 
place which I was not to enter!” 

It is said that women’s tongues are apt to run too 
fast, but there are occasions when to speak is impossible, 
even to them ; and if any woman — almost any — would 
look back to those passages in her life when she felt the 
most, she w^ould find it had been when her tongue clave 
to the roof of her mouth, when her lips felt dry and par- 
alyzed, when fire seemed flashing before her eyes, the 
rush of many waters sounding in her ears, and yet she 
spoke not — could not speak. And those who had 
brought her to this pass knew nothing of what they had 
done, but went their way, contented with themselves and 
with her. 

It was thus that Jesse stood to hear of another being 
permitted to go where she might not. No reasonable 
conclusion presented itself to her distracted mind, that 


302 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


it was because of the vast difference betwixt that other 
and herself — because that other was a mere child, not 
mature enough to understand or participate in what 
might be arouud her there — in reality, in her innocent 
unconsciousness only one remove from the pet animals 
allowed free access to that room. The fact was, then, 
Jessie felt, to stare her in the face; and with flashing 
eyes, and burning cheeks, and desperate resolution, she 
rushed upon it hke some doomed victim eager for in- 
stant death. 

A doom it might be, but it was not death. No. 
There are after hours, and days, and weeks, and months, 
which an impassioned nature always flnds more difficult 
to endure than the sharp agony of a sudden grief, how- 
ever intense that may be. Any thing quick, any thing 
decisive, may seem, under certain circumstances, congen- 
ial to such a nature ; but the long interval of suspended 
hope and fear, the helpless waiting for the future, the 
stillness of uncertainty — these are what a passionate na- 
ture can not master, unless, indeed, there is some active, 
stirring occupation for the energies to dash at, so that 
the physical forces, at least, may become exhausted, and 
thus repose of mind be purchased by that wholesome 
medicine which kind nature, the best physician, would 
prescribe for all. 

There were times, about this period of her life, when 
Jessie felt as if her senses were actually giving way; 
and yet she did not know what ailed her. Was it her 
nerves or her passions that were in fault ? Sometimes, 
indeed, the cloud vanished, and she could have laughed 
at herself for being so wretched without a caus6 ; par- 
ticularly when, as the spring ripened into summer, and 
her husband found now and then a little time for walk- 
ing with her in the flelds and lanes, and thus she was 
herself again — again a happy, honored wife — all things 


THE SECEET. 


303 


ministering to her supremacy, and scarcely a thought, as 
she fancied, in her husband’s mind, which did not centre 
in herself. Such was the lesson he had taught her in 
the first flush of their married happiness. How was she 
to unlearn it now ? Ah ! there are looks of tenderness, 
and words of love, and little acts of homage, which a 
man so easily forgets — a woman never. 

Jessie had all these treasured up in her memory more 
carefully than ever costly gem, or bridal gift, or tangible 
love-token was treasured. And now, if ever a smile was 
less tender, a word less afiectionately toned, an act less 
flattering than formerly, she was able to compare each 
with its prototype, hid up in her treasury, and so to 
weigh, and measure, and finally to ascertain, by such 
comparison, whether the present had deteriorated so 
much as one iota from the value of the past. 

This is what women occupy themselves with when 
left entirely to cultivate and feed upon the affections of 
the heart, without other employment or other sustenance. 
And a very sad affair they make of it, poor souls ! — loi- 
tering forever in a little garden of jasmine and roses, 
with nothing but perfume to offer to their lords, instead 
of reaping in the harvest field, and bringing home the 
golden sheaves; and so making bread, and food, and 
solid nutriment the foundation of a truer appetite for 
fruits and flowers. 

But yet Jessie was almost happy again sometimes 
even now ; and when she was so, kindly feelings would 
rush back again into her heart, and she would then speali 
almost kindly even to the orphan girl, her companion. 
She might, indeed, have done this more frequently, but 
that an influence reached her from old Mabel and the 
other servants, which she would have been ashnmed to 
acknowledge as such, and yet was unable entirely to 
withstand. 


304 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


It is wonderful what power such people have when 
they conspire to set themselves against any inmate of 
the household where they live, especially if such unfor- 
tunate being should be unsupported by substantial rela- 
tives and home connections, or be in any way suspected 
of being poor and dependent. The first thing they 
seem to anticipate, when their mistress engages a com- 
panion, is a spy — a sort of go-between, whose especial 
office is to carry information from the kitchen to the 
parlor. Hence their united jealousy and determined op- 
position. 

In the present instance, the poor stranger who gave 
such deep offense was as unconscious of the true condi- 
tion of the kitchen as she was ignorant of the proper 
duties of its occupants ; nor was she at all more disposed 
to make a party among them, either for or against her- 
self. All that she had thus far aimed at was not to give 
offense; and yet she never could do right. The work 
she made in the house, Mabel said, nobody could be- 
lieve. It was one person’s work to tidy up after her. 
She never went out of the house but Mabel thought she 
ought to have gone sooner, or might have waited until 
another time ; nor remained in, but Mabel charged her 
with idleness. And so it was throughout her innocent 
life ; for, though we do not pretend that a little practical 
knowledge of common things would not have been a 
great advantage to the girl, and sometimes a real saving 
of trouble in the house, yet nobody being so kind as to 
impart to her this knowledge, she went on sinning, if 
she sinned at all, unconsciously, and, happily for her, 
knew nothing of what the servants were talking about 
among themselves. 

Had they confined their remarks within their own de- 
partment, less harm would have been done. But, by a 
strange gift of nature, in which she appears to have done 


THE SECRET. 


305 


herself great injustice, there is a power, exercised some- 
times by kindly -disposed women, of conveying little 
crumbs of bitterness into the most carefully-prepared 
and otherwise palatable and wholesome food; so that 
while they tell a pleasant story, or even report a com- 
mon fact, they can so manage to serve it up as to leave 
a disagreeable taste upon the palate of the hearer long 
after the sweetness or the refreshment of the repast is 
gone. 

Thus it was that Mabel seldom went into the presence 
of her mistress to discuss any domestic matters, however 
necessary, or even pleasant in themselves, but she con- 
trived to drop in some hint about “ Miss,” as she called 
the young lady ; and sometimes, unfortunately, it hap- 
pened to be how master had ordered something to be 
done for Miss. As, for instance, that she should have a 
cold bath every morning, which caused, as it seemed, an 
inconceivable amount of trouble, and damped the furni- 
ture of the room, and destroyed the paper. And then 
the wet towels that were thrown about, and the time 
they took to dry, making the kitchen all day like a com- 
mon wash-house, until they could not see one another for 
steam and stew. And as for rheumatics, never in her 
life had Mabel suffered as she had done since Miss began 
with her bath. 

Perhaps the reciter of these, and many other little 
episodes in domestic life, never noticed how a deep red 
flush would pass over the face of her mistress while list- 
ening to such tales ; or, if she did notice it, less pardon- 
able was the persistence with which she went on, setting 
forth many a simple matter in such a light as to make it 
wear an aspect which was any thing but flattering and 
agreeable to the lady of the house. Nor were there 
wanting occasions in which feminine fancy could so 
twist and torture what was done for the stranger as to 


306 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


make it appear more than had ever been done for the 
wife. 

Jessie was yet too prond to allow her servant to see 
that she put this construction oh her stories. The deep 
burning blush she could not help; but she mostly so 
managed as to turn her head away, to stoop, or to busy 
herself with something in another part of the room ; 
only Mabel must have known it was most frequently 
after such interviews that the nervous attacks came on, 
when those restoratives were administered which Mabel 
considered indispensable in all nervous ailments. 

On one of these occasions Mabel had managed to be- 
tray that her master did not always come home alone, 
but was met somewhere by Miss, and so they returned 
together. Jessie said nothing at the time — perhaps be- 
trayed nothing ; but many an evening after this she 
might have been found looking sideways from a particu- 
lar window, which commanded a view of the road by 
which her husband usually returned, so as to enter at a 
garden gate of which he kept a private key. 

From this window Jessie could observe almost the 
w^hole of the garden, as well as a portion of the road ; 
and, truly enough, she did see her husband and Lina re- 
turning together, apparently in the highest spirits, the 
girl hanging on his arm, with her hands clasped over it ; 
only, as soon as the garden door was opened, she rushed 
in, threw off her bonnet, shook back her clustering ring- 
lets from her face, and then ran hither and thither 
among the flower-beds, looking as happy as a young kit- 
ten at play. 

Jessie never saw the girl look or act in this way in 
her presence. She thought her husband, too, had some- 
thing of a youthful air, as, half in play, he remonstrated 
with the wild creature -who was carelessly breaking 
down his favorite flowers. Not that Lina was apt to do 


THE SECRET. 


307 


mischief in the garden. She was a true lover of flowers, 
as well as of animals. But sometimes nature and youth 
combined would burst forth even with her ; and, from 
the very rarity of such ebullitions, they were, perhaps, 
the more extreme. 

Jessie looked miserably down upon the scene. Yes, 
miserably ; for she half envied its enjoyment — half sus- 
pected its innocence. It did not certainly look like any 
thing wrong. Why could not she go down and share 
that healthy, wholesome joy ? 

For a garden, simply as such, Jessie never could per- 
suade herself to care, though it was one of her husband’s 
chief delights ; botanical as well as floral studies being, 
with him, a favorite resource in the midst of more labo- 
rious occupations. Jessie liked the general aspect of the 
garden well enough — its perfume too; but, above all, 
its gorgeous colors. She liked its luxurious seats and 
dreamy walks — its idleness, and sometimes its seclusion. 
Thus she had not been unwilling to loiter with her hus- 
band about the garden in the evenings of the first sum- 
mer after their marriage. But since he had begun to 
drop her arm, as he now so often did, in order to gather 
up some drooping flower, or even to bud a rose or graft 
a pear, Jessie had grown jealous of the garden with its 
fair inhabitants, and took but little pleasure in it alto- 
gether. What will not a vain, pampered woman grow 
jealous of, with nothing else to do ? 

Still there was a better nature at work in Jessie’s 
heart, ever at war with this her meaner nature, and 
hence the almost constant dissatisfaction which now per- 
vaded her life. There was a nature at work, too, which 
could make her so gentle and so loving, so altogether 
charming in a way impossible to describe, that when her 
husband left her, as he did sometimes, vexed and annoy- 
ed beyond expression, he had only to recall her looks, 


308 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


her words, on some bygone occasion, but especially her 
deep and absorbing love for himself, and he would re- 
turn to her with all the ardor of a lover, mingled with 
the calmer satisfaction which a husband feels for a true 
and faithful wife. 


CHAPTER YI. 

When a man has to be driven back, by the disturb- 
ance or discomfort of the present, to recall what his wife 
was in the past, the domestic happiness of such a couple 
may be said to tremble like a ruin tottering to its fall. 
Woman has a strange faculty for hoarding these treas- 
ured memories, so as to clothe again her broken idol in 
all the splendor or the beauty of its former state. But 
with man this seems to be impossible — unnatural; and 
woman does wisely to lay it to her account that it is so. 
That breath which chills or scorches up the present with 
man, passes also over his past, until the temple of his 
once familiar joys becomes to him as the chamber of 
death, and he enters it no more. Thus does it behoove 
all women who have to do with men to be careful of 
the present — ^lose that, and the chances are that they 
lose all. 

Like many another clever man. Dr. Thompson went 
about his accustomed avocations, profoundly ignorant 
of what was stirring in that little world of feeling which 
lived within the hearts of those around him. He was 
curious about the functions of fossil animals ; and few 
men could discourse more knowingly than he upon the 
different formations which appertained to any given 
stratum of the structure of the earth. He was engaged, 
indeed, about this time, in delivering a course of lectures 
on fossU remains at a Mechanics’ Institute in a neighbor- 
ing town. His audience listened to him during these 


THE SECRET. 


309 


lectures with something bordering upon awe, so pro- 
found was their wonder at the extent of knowledge, as 
well as the minuteness of research^ by which the infor- 
mation he conveyed was so strikingly characterized. 

Yet, as already said, there was one little world of 
w^hich he knew no more than a mere child. We call it a 
little world, because it is so often overlooked or neglect- 
ed by those who are esteemed wise. But W’hen we re- 
flect that in this world live all the motives by which 
mankind are influenced, and that out of this world spring 
all the designs which ripen into action, we see that it 
can be no little world, because both good and evil have 
their habitation there. It was the human heart, with 
all its hidden hopes and fears, its palpitating agonies, its 
ecstatic joys, with which this wise man was so little ac- 
quainted. He knew all sorts of hearts in their fleshly 
capacity, and could explain their valves and lobes, with 
all their vital functions, and their intricate economy ; but 
the heart of his own wife, much as he liked to hold the 
key of it, was a sealed casket to him, and likely to re- 
main so, notwithstanding all his wisdom. 

We have said that Dr. Thompson was a good man, as 
well as wise, and in a certain way this was unquestion- 
ably true. In the first place, he was punctual in the ob- 
servance of religious duties — as if all duties were not 
religious. He w^as a stanch upholder of the form of 
worship by law established. He would not have been 
absent from his place at church for any light considera- 
tion, and a patient of his must have been very ill indeed 
to keep him from the morning service. He had morn- 
ing and evening prayers in his own family ; and all 
these Christian duties being done, and done faithfully, 
the doctor seemed to have no disposition, and, in fact, 
no need to make religion the subject of his conversation 
— not so much as the subject of comment or inquiry, 


310 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


even with regard to those who were nearest and dearest 
to him. 

Hence on this one important topic his wife and he 
were as entire strangers as if they had never addressed 
each other in the language of affection. Jessie, above 
most women, sorely needed a friend and counselor here ; 
but she failed to find one. She was afraid to speak 
plainly on this subject, and none of her hints elicited one 
word to the purpose. She thought her husband did not 
care ; and what with her nerves, and. her vacant life, her 
fretted feelings, and too often her excited brain, she al- 
most longed at times to do something actually wrong, 
that she might have some real cause for repentance. 

Of nothing like this did the doctor so much as dream. 
His wife had a companion now, so he thought all must 
be right, though she would not own it. So far from 
that, she complained, found fault, and was continually 
putting herself out about trifles ; but that, he thought, 
most women did. So there could be nothing devolving 
upon him, in relation to his beautiful young wife, except 
to love her, and that, of course, he did ; though he might, 
had he been perfectly honest, have begun to confess to a 
little distaste to her company at times — a little eagerness 
to escape from it when she was most unreasonable, and 
a little hesitation about returning, unless he could feel 
sure that her humor had changed since the morning. 

In this state of things it was quite natural that the 
doctor should find a certain kind of relief in the society 
of a young girl who had no humors, who never troubled 
him about her feelings — who, in fact, never troubled him 
at all ; but met him with good-humor, laughed when he 
was merry, and who did all the little services for him 
which he required, without requiring any thing in return. 
So, as already said, the doctor thought he had done all 
he could in satisfying his wife’s desire for a companion ; 


THE SECRET. 


311 


and, with this comfortable conviction, he went out and 
came in, without once suspecting that there was any- 
thing materially Avrong at the foundation of his domestic 
comfort. 

And there beside him sat that dark-eyed woman, with 
her hungry heart, and nothing to feed upon but the 
husks of withered love ; for she knew that it was Avith- 
ered, though he did not. She sat there, not unfrequent- 
ly, with an expression on her countenance that Avould 
have startled almost any other man. She sat there wait- 
ing, and wondering, perhaps, in her secret thoughts, 
Avhether there Avould ever come again fresh greenness in 
her faded bower, or whether now it would be Avinter al- 
Avays, with frost, and cold, and nakedness of branch and 
bough. 

At length there came a time — and it was not very 
long in coming — Avhen the husband was absolutely tired 
— tired of consoling unreasonable griefs, and of trying to 
alleviate imaginary woes ; tired, too, perhaps, of hearing 
his Avife perpetually cast blame upon her young com- 
panion for every thing, Avhether real or imaginary, Avhich 
brought agitation or discomfort to herself — tired alto- 
gether. What man would not be tired, under such cir- 
cumstances, hoAveA'er beautiful his Avife might be ? 

As it is impossible to hear an innocent person, against 
whom loe have no pique^ unjustly and continually blamed 
without liking them the better, and endeavoring to keep 
them from being entirely trampled doAvn ; so it might 
be in this spirit that the doctor tried to excuse what 
seemed wrong in Lina, and finally brought upon himself 
the charge of being partial to the girl — kinder to her a 
great deal than she deserved, and more considerate to 
her than he was to his OAvn wife. 

If any thing can effectually drive a man away, it is pre- 
cisely this style of complaint. Jessie tried it only once 


312 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


or twice, and then, taking warning by the mischief she 
had done, kept whatever suspicions she might entertain 
in this quarter carefully locked within her own breast. 
Thus the subjects on which they could not, and dared 
not, speak to each other were daily multiplying between 
the husband and the wife. Each was now, to some ex- 
tent, leading a separate life ; and that strangeness, on 
Jessie’s part, which we have called fear, was rapidly in- 
creasing. 

If they had only had points of contact wholly separate 
from their affections — subjects for intercourse to which 
love bore no relation — good intellectual companionship) 
and mutual work, with charity, or any kind of usefulness 
for its definite aim, all might have been well with them. 
But now, what was to be done ? 

The man did well enough. He had endless pursuits 
— objects of never-failing interest. He became more 
mixed up than formerly with the social and political inter- 
ests of the p)lace in which he lived — people said to the in- 
jury of his profession; but he was a man in easy circum- 
stances, and did not care much what profession he fol- 
lowed, so long as he was useful, and could help his neigh- 
bors a little to get on in life, as well as to live. 

But while he busied himself in this useful and satisfac- 
tory manner, the worst of all diseases was coming upon 
Jessie in the form of a diseased imagination, which saw 
what never existed, heard what was never spoken, and 
believed what had no truth. And on these points noth- 
ing could undeceive her, because she communicated to 
no one what she imagined. It was, consequently, never 
brought to the test of clear and honest investigation. 

'Among other misconceptions of her disordered brain, 
Jessie began to cherish the idea that to fix upon her a 
particular person as a companion had been a preconcert- 
ed plan of her husband’s, partly that he might always 


THE SECEET. 


313 


have a spy upon her actions while himself away, and 
partly that he might have near him some favorite of his 
own. She could not — dared not surmise more than a 
favorite, Lina was so young, and, besides that, her 
childlike innocence would have silenced all more injuri- 
ous surmises, had they presented themselves even as a 
passing thought. 

No ; Jessie never imagined any thing really wrong — 
not morally wrong on the part of her husband. Only 
how was she to account for one or two facts in Avhich 
she could not be mistaken, without supposing a kind of 
secret understanding between her husband and the girl ? 

One of these facts consisted in an evident change in 
the girl herself, which Jessie observed without being 
able to induce her to explain it. Always timid and re- 
served with Jessie, she had lately become so in a still 
greater degree, and at the same time absent and depress- 
ed in spirits. Mabel could have told how this change 
had come about; for, urged ^n by an unconquerable de- 
sire to let the poor girl know how things really stood, 
she had opened upon her one day in a most merciless 
manner, until, beholding the sore distress and the bitter 
weeping which her malicious words occasioned, and' 
alarmed at the idea of her master finding out what she 
had done, Mabel had become almost penitent, and im- 
plored the girl not to tell. So poor Lina went about 
with the painful consciousness that she was not only 
hateful to the servants, but even more hateful to the 
lady whom she was bound to serve, and help, and make 
herself valuable to, in any way that was possible to her. 
Yet tell she would not, having given her promise to that 
effect ; but from that time her life became quite different 
to her — her path crooked and thorny, so that she knew 
not where to tread. 

It was evident that Lina often wept. The doctor saw 

O 


314 


CHAPTEES ON' WIVES. 


this ; but, thinking the cause might be some strange 
treatment on the part of his wife, he refrained from mak- 
ing any inquiry about her tears. They were only too 
apt to flow when he spoke kindly to her ; for the girl 
was very desolate, and had been from her early child- 
hood. Just that little portion of her flrst entrance into 
the doctor’s family had been like a sunny spot in her 
existence — genial, bright, and warm. But the cold, 
shivering sense of standing alone among those who did 
not love her — nay, even those who hated her, came back 
again with Mabel’s cruel words, and she burst into fresh 
floods of tears every time the remembrance of them was 
renewed. 

In this state of mind, though Lina dared not tell her 
trouble, she felt impelled to seek the society of her only 
friend and protector more than she had ever done be- 
fore; and, on condition that she would neither speak 
nor move about, she was allowed to spend hours in the 
doctor’s study, often crouching upon the hearth-rug at 
his feet, absorbed in some book which he had chosen for 
her, or seated at the farthest corner of the room, with 
the old cat in her lap, while she pursued her needle- work 
with that silent steadiness which is acquired under a 
long system of absolute obedience. 

Lina never rebelled. The doctor tested her continu- 
ally for his own amusement ; but she never foiled him, 
except that no insisting on his part, not even his kindest 
persuasions, could make her a cheerful, or even ordinari- 
ly interesting companion for Jessie. The doctor might 
have thought it was not in the girl to make herself 
agreeable — and certainly she had enjoyed but few ad- 
vantages in that way — ^had not her pleasant chat with 
him, when he had time to talk with her, convinced him 
that the fault did not lie in her want of capability, 
neither could it be in any want of desire to give him 


THE SECRET. 


315 


satisfaction by faithfully fulfilling the duties which he 
laid upon her. 

“ I try and try,” she said one evening, when the doc- 
tor was remonstrating with her ; “ indeed I but noth- 
ing will come. I say, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and ‘No, ma’am,’ 
just like some poor charity girl, and then I tremble all 
x>ver, until I am sure I must seem to be either a great 
sinner or a great simpleton.” 

“ You are a simpleton, Lina,” said the doctor, “or you 
would overcome this hesitation. But Avhat is the mat- 
ter with you ? Why did you start ?” 

“ Hark !” said Lina, suddenly turning her head toward 
the window, which was low, and opened out upon a 
gravel walk. “Hark! I hear it again. Do you ever 
have robbers come about the house?” 

“Robbers! You foolish child! What makes you 
ask?” 

“ Because I am quite sure I hear steps sometimes upon 
the gravel walk when I sit here after it is dark — stealth- 
ily-creeping . steps ; and once — now don’t laugh — it is 
true as that I stand here — once I saw two eyes.” 

“Yes, when you looked in the glass I have no doubt 
you did.” 

“ Ah ! you may make game now, but some time you 
will see for yourself, and hear too.” 

“Well, I suppose I shall believe then. But in the 
mean time sit down again, Lina, and go on with your 
work, for I want to be very quiet.” 

True enough there were steps beside the study win- 
dow that night, and had been many nights before. 
And eyes too — Lina was quite right there — large, dark, 
flaming eyes, staring almost close to the glass, through 
a gap left between the wall and the thick drapery, which 
would otherwise have prevented all possibility of any 
one seeing into the room from without. What was seen 


316 


CHAPTEES Olif WIVES. 


within that room might have been seen by the whole 
world, it was in itself so innocent; but the circum- 
stances altogether were strange, and not, in the ordinary 
course of domestic affairs, beyond suspicion ; nor was 
the eye of the watcher disinclined to see harm, whether 
there was any real harm or not. Once — perhaps more 
than once — there were tears on the part of the younger 
of the two occupants of that room — sad weeping, which 
had to be soothed, and was soothed, apparently with 
much tenderness — Jessie believed with a kiss on parting 
for the night. But she now believed so many things, 
that this somewhat clearer evidence of her senses scarce- 
ly added to her i^revious suspicions. 

J essie was growing desperate. She dared not speak. 
Besides, if she did, what good could possibly follow ? 
It would be as easy to put her off with falsehood spoken 
as with falsehood acted ; and she was now quite certain 
that some secret lurked behind the scheme of this girl’s 
having been brought into the house. While, therefore, 
they could so manage as to baffle all her attempts to find 
the secret out, there was little probability that any plain 
speaking of hers would unravel the mystery. She was 
afraid, too — more and more afraid, in j^roportion as she 
felt herself a stranger to the inner feelings of her hus- 
band, and he to hers. Besides which, people generally 
are afraid when they are pursuing a circuitous course, 
and at the same time conscious of doing wrong. For, 
if Jessie was not absolutely transgressing any moral 
law, she was feeling wrong, and being wrong ; her whole 
life, in fact, was wrong, though in no very obvious man- 
ner, and it made her no better that others were also 
wrong. 

So this most unhappy summer wore away at last, and 
autumn came with deepening gloom, and life itself seem- 
ed to be closing in upon Jessie like a vast tomb, in which 


THE SECEET. 317 

she was destined to linger out her days ; for to live, act- 
ually to live again, she believed impossible for her. 

The question was whether Jessie ever had lived up to 
this time. Life was but a mean affair, if she had really 
lived. Surely she was capable of something better than 
this. Yet how was she to lift herself out of the old into 
the new and the higher life ? A married woman whose 
husband does not help her is, of all living creatures, least 
likely to help herself. She does not generally see that 
she wants helping, unless he sees and tells her so, faith- 
fully and feelingly. Jessie knew that she was miserable, 
and even degraded, but was far enough from thinking 
that the cause lay in herself — any thing but that. In her 
own opinion she was the victim, and so unquestionably, 
to some extent, she was. 

But the help — from what quarter was the help to 
come ? Jessie was young— perhaps a long life lay yet 
before her. Was it to be always thus, or worse ? for 
worse it must be, if not better. She was rapidly grow- 
ing worse — sinking, deteriorating. She knew that, but 
how or w^hy she could not tell ; and thus it was chiefly 
that she blamed her health and her nerves for want of 
something else to blame. She was certainly not well. 
Nobody could be well under such circumstances. But 
what was to alter these circumstances ? Ah ! how much 
kinder to us is the Author and Disposer of our lives than 
we are to each other, or even to ourselves ! 

On one of these autumn days, which had begun to 
close in so drearily, Jessie received the intelligence of 
her father having been attacked with sudden and seri- 
ous illness ; and the same letter conveyed an urgent re- 
quest from both parents that she would hasten to them 
without any unnecessary delay. Of course the doctor 
also was expected, and Jessie declared it was absolutely 
impossible for her to make the journey alone. Other- 


318 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


wise he might have hesitated, for there was now an un- 
usual demand upon his attention nearer home. 

In the county jail, situated in the vicinity of Larch- 
field, symptoms had recently appeared of a malignant 
kind of fever, which Dr. Thompson obtained the credit 
of understanding how to treat. At all events, he was 
regarded as high authority in cases of this kind ; and 
such was his social influence, added to a certain power 
over others peculiar to himself, that nurses and subordin- 
ates of every description were in the habit of asking di- 
rections from and obeying him more implicitly than any 
of the other medical attendants. 

In comparison -with claims like these, those of an old 
gentleman who had attained the age at which life be- 
comes comparatively valueless, and one whose malady no 
medical skill could possibly remove, were as nothing in 
the estimation of the doctor ; and he consequently agreed 
to accompany his wife on her journey only on condition 
that, after fulfilling all that immediate duty required of 
him, he should return home immediately. 

“ Ah !” thought Jessie, “ they will get rid of me in this 
way. I shall be left behind, and he knows how impossi- 
ble it will be for me to reach home without he comes for 
me. So they will have all to themselves, without inter- 
ruption from me.” 

There was no escape for Jessie — go she must. No 
pretext presented itself as a sufficient plea for declining 
to comply with her parents’ wishes. Her position was 
hateful in the extreme ; for no single voice said, “ Stay 
all said, “ Go, and go soon.” She did not think it pos- 
sible she could be ready by the time her husband 
proposed. Lina ran up stairs with unusual alacrity to 
help her to pack. Jessie was annoyed beyond endur- 
ance. She bit her beautiful lip with her pearly teeth, 
caught a sight of her dark frowning countenance in the 


THE SECRET. 


319 


glass, wondered where all her beauty could have gone, 
sighed over her failing health, accepted a little refresh- 
ment from Mabel’s hand, and then, with the assistance 
of twa ©r three other servants, was made ready for set- 
ting off by the next train. 

CHAPTER YII. 

Jessie had not yet become so entirely absorbed in her 
own feelings as to be insensible to suffering in others ; 
and the state of things in her father’s home affected her 
deeply. The three years of her married life seemed to 
have added ten to that of her parents. Her mother, af- 
flicted with a painful rheumatic affection, was now scarce- 
ly able to creep from one room to another ; while her fa- 
ther, strangely altered by paralysis, lay in an almost child- 
ish condition, though at the same time restless, and re- 
quiring in the extreme, and most impatient in demanding 
whatever object of desire took possession of his little 
remnant of mind. 

It was evident that no attention nor care, not even the 
common services of kindness, could be rendered to Jessie 
by either of her parents now; and she became so alarm- 
ed at the prospect of what must be her own position in 
such a house, that she told her husband he must on no 
account leave her behind ; and she gladly promised him 
that, if he only would wait a day or two for her, perhaps 
not more than a single day, she would return with him 
to their own home. 

The doctor only said in reply that he did not see how 
his wife could get away so soon, as it would be neces- 
sary for him to leave early the following morning ; and 
to Jessie it was too painfully clear that every one was 
expecting her to remain, and to remain to help^ too. 
This was a fearful look-out for one who never helped 


320 


CHAPTEKS ON WIVES. 


any body, and who required so much help herself ; but 
she consented at last, and with many tears, and many as- 
surances to her husband that she was really unequal to 
the duty imposed upon her, reluctantly permitted him to 
depart without her. 

The first thing Jessie had set about,- after the inter- 
change of mutual kind expressions, was to convince her 
mother how suflering and ailing she was herself. 

“ I should scarcely have thought it,” replied the old 
lady. “ I should have said you were looking remarkably 
well.” 

“ That is the worst of it,” said Jessie. “ My looks are 
so deceptive. Nobody pities me — nobody has the least 
idea what I suffer.” 

“Well,” said the old lady, “I am very sorry for you, 
for I know what suffering is. I’m sure you have come 
to a house of suffering. Oh dear, to be caught in every 
limb as I am. At first it was only this hand ; but now 
it’s my leg — and this shoulder — Oh dear, dear ! — and my 
back !” 

Jessie could not help seeing that her mother’s suffer- 
ings were at all events more acute than her own, but she 
was quite sure they were not altogether so distressing. 
Indeed, such was her sensibility to pain, even when only 
seen, not felt, that she began to fear this spectacle of her 
mother’s spasms of rheumatism would be more than she 
could bear ; and as to doing any thing, or even thinking 
of any thing to alleviate, that was as entirely out of her 
province as if she now heard of rheumatism for the first 
time in her life. 

Happily for Jessie there was a very clever and compe- 
tent nurse in attendance, one of those who know how to 
take care of themselves, as well as others ; and this wom- 
an, seeing a fine handsome lady, young and buxom, as it 
seemed to her, and capable of a good deal of exertion. 


THE SECRET. 


321 


take her place in the sick-room in the capacity of daugh- 
ter, began, very naturally, to think how comfortably this 
new source of help would relieve her, setting her at lib- 
erty sometimes to enjoy a good night’s rest, or any other 
refreshment that she might stand in need of. 

So the nurse made much of the old gentleman’s wish- 
es, “often and often expressed to her,” she said, “in the 
dead of the night, when he was always clearest, that he 
might only have his daughter with him, and then he 
should be happy.” 

“And yet,” observed Jessie, “he does not seem able 
to converse much.” 

“ The night is the time,” said the nurse, in a most em- 
phatic whisper. “ If you could only manage, now, just 
once or so, to sit up — ” 

“ Oh dear !” exclaimed Jessie, “ I could not do such a 
thing for the world.” 

“ I only thought,” continued the nurse, “ it might have 
been a comfort afterward to reflect upon. He’s not long 
for this world, poor dear ; and you are an only child, I 
think, ma’am ?” 

“ Yes,” said Jessie, a little softened. 

“ An only child is very precious,” observed the nurse, 
with a very expressive shake of the head, and “ parents 
are parents. People may marry twice, or even three 
times, and more than that, but they never have neither 
father nor mother again.” 

When the nurse had reached this point of pathos, there 
were signs of her being wanted in the adjoining room, 
and perhaps she had said as much as prudence dictated 
for a first experiment. 

If Jessie was disappointed to find her father so little 
capable of any prolonged conversation, she could not be 
mistaken in the importance he attached to her being 
near him, nor in the almost childlike affection with which 
O 2 


322 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


he insisted nj^on receiving almost every thing from her 
hand, as well as in having her so placed in the room that 
he could see her plainly, even when she was not employ- 
ed in doing any thing for him. In waiting upon him, 
Jessie had to be taught by the nurse how to perform the 
simplest act of service ; but as she had always been led 
on to perform her duties by being praised for doing 
them, or by seeing how gratefully they were received, 
so now the evident satisfaction of her father, when she 
presented his jelly or his cup of broth, so won upon her, 
that she began almost to find pleasure in the act ; only, 
as she said, and said continually, her strength would nev- 
er hold out — she was quite sure of that. 

There are many expressions applied to denote a cer- 
tain feminine condition well known in the chamber of 
sickness, and sometimes found elsewhere. Some call it 
being “knocked up some describe themselves, not less 
elegantly, as being “ upset others as “ worn out,” and 
so on; each expression indicating that the complainant 
has arrived at the extreme end of her capabilities, and 
so, instead of doing any thing for others, must be attend- 
ed to herself. 

Jessie went through all these, and each time the nurse 
applied restoratives with such efiect that she was able to 
try again ; and really succeeded so well at last, that, un- 
der the direction of the nurse, she learned many of those 
nice arts by which a degree of cheerfulness and comfort 
is maintained in the sick-room — arts deserving to rank 
higher than many which society has agreed to call fine 
arts, because they are, in reality, the finest of all, when 
tenderly and delicately executed. 

The nurse was lavish in her encomiums upon Jessie’s 
proficiency in this new branch of accomplishment. The 
old man smiled, and evidently appreciated much that 
was done. The mother lifted up her cramped and swoll- 


THE SECRET. 


323 


en hands in astonishment that it was Jessie, actually our 
Jessie! while Jessie herself, to her own unspeakable won- 
der, became almost cheerful again, and forgot sometimes 
to brood over those dark, sad thoughts about her home 
which had lately been her torment. 

As a matter of duty, a visitor came to join the little 
circle about this time, whose presence did not add much 
to Jessie’s satisfaction, because she was wholly incapable 
of rendering any practical service. It was the old maid- 
en aunt from Bath, her mother’s oldest sister, now very 
old — a sort of maundering creature, who dwelt forever 
upon bygone times, and puzzled her poor faded brain 
with trying to make it render up impressions long since 
worn out. 

This little woman it was who had harped so continu- 
ally upon the name of Thompson — “ Dr. Thompson 
and she had not now been long in the house before she 
caught up the same thread again, saying she thought she 
could clear it now. But none listened to her, because 
they had not the slightest faith in her being able to clear 
any thing. 

Jessie had as little patience as any one for these old- 
world stories ; and now especially, when her new occu- 
pation began to afford her a certain kind of interest nev- 
er felt before — now that she began to see a little into 
the grand mistake of doing nothing, she found it difficult 
to look with any common degree of respect upon one 
whose only vocation in life seemed to be a kind of end- 
less twaddle. 

It was early enough, certainly, for Jessie to begin to 
look down upon idle people ; yet such was the change ef- 
fected in her feelings by the little she had already done, 
that the new stimulus reached even her diseased imagin- 
ation, and she began to form plans for the future for so 
distinguishing herself in cleverness and activity, that all 


324 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


the world should wonder and admire, and her husband 
more than all. 

Jessie’s dream was still of admiration — of apprecia- 
tion^ she thought it was — and of affection. She could 
do nothing without being loved. The tenfold happiness 
of loving had not yet dawned upon her in its true glory. 
It was the gratitude of her father, and his affectionate 
expressions, the admiring astonishment of her mother, 
and, scarcely less than these, the commendations of the 
nurse upon her skill and cleverness, which kept her up 
to her work. Whatever might be the stimulus, howev- 
er, the work itself was good — useful to those around her, 
most useful to herself. 

With all her encomiums, the nurse had not yet been 
able to accomplish all that she wished, until one day, 
when Jessie rather reluctantly consented to take a night 
of watching — just for one night — only, she said, by way 
of experiment. It might not suit her health — Jessie was 
sure it would not, for she was by no means a light sleep- 
er, and somewhat addicted to late rising. But an unu- 
sual dose of flattery had brought about the desired re- 
sult, and Jessie was to take charge of the sick-room for 
the whole of one night. 

Adjoining the chamber occupied by the invalid was a 
kind of ante-room, in which those who were in attend- 
ance usually sat, in order that perfect stillness might be 
maintained in the inner apartment; and here Jessie was 
surrounded with every thing necessary for her own com- 
fort, as well as every thing likely to be required by the 
invalid. One want, however, Jessie had not communi- 
cated. She would have been ashamed to own it, but 
she was afraid, absolutely afraid ; and she sadly wanted 
a companion. She knew that she could do very well for 
a while ; but the idea of the awful solitude and stillness 
of deep night was more than she knew how to bear. 


THE SECRET. 


325 


She had provided herself with a novel of the true spas- 
modic school ; yet even that might contain horrors — in- 
deed, it must, and consequently the matter would be 
made worse. 

So when the family had retired to rest, Jessie Avent 
stealthily and tapped at the door of the room occupied 
by her aunt ; and, on being permitted to enter, she im- 
plored the old lady to come and undress by the fire in 
the ante-room, promising her a cup of tea, a glass of 
negus, or any thing, in short, if she would only come. 

Overcome by hei\ entreaties, the old lady consented. 
She would have thought it a pity to miss such an oppor- 
tunity for the enjoyment of a little quiet chat ; so she 
was soon seated by the fire in the comfortable easy-chair 
which Jessie vacated for her. In the hope of detaining 
her guest, Jessie made every demonstration of listening 
attentively. This was the more necessary, as they had 
to speak in a kind of subdued tone, lest their voices 
should penetrate into the adjoining room. It was also 
necessary for them to be very quiet, in order that they 
might not miss the slightest sound of a little tinkling 
hand-bell used by the old gentleman to summon his 
nurses when he wanted any thing. 

Jessie wished she could read her novel while her aunt 
was talking, but that would scarcely have been respect- 
ful. She therefore took up her fancy work, and prepared 
for endurance. 

The little woman w'as soon upon the old theme — her 
maid Rebecca, and the story of which she now thought 
she had been able to grasp every particular. And truly 
her story was one which might have done almost as 
well as the novel, had she been able to put its difierent 
parts together. It was sufficiently romantic in its de- 
tails, only that, unfortunately, it was presented to Jessie 
in a form so disjointed and fragmentary, that her atten- 


326 


CHAPTERS 01^ WIVES. 


tion was never really secured, and she failed entirely to 
apprehend the real drift of the narrative. 

It seemed, from the old lady’s account, that the uncle 
of her maid had once assisted at a marriage of a some- 
what remarkable description. It was that of a youth of 
the name of Thompson, with a lady of foreign aspect and 
manners, much older than himself. There were no rela- 
tives or friends in attendance.' Indeed, the whole affair 
was conducted with the utmost privacy, the young man 
especially being very much afraid that any of his own 
connections should know of it. In order to secure this 
secrecy, Rebecca’s uncle, who had given the bride away, 
was made to promise solemnly that he never would dis- 
close what had taken place. 

“You say the young man’s name was Thompson?” 
said Jessie, suddenly looking up at this part of the 
story. 

“ Yes, I know it was Thompson — of that I am quite 
clear. He was a doctor, too, or learning to be one, in 
the family where the lady was a sort of governess, or it 
might be lady’s maid. Nobody knew what she was.” 

“ Quite a romance,” said Jessie, laughing. “ Pray 
what was the lady’s name ?” 

“ There, I am sorry to say, I am at fault,” replied the 
narrator. “ I can not recall it, if, indeed, I ever rightly 
heard. An Italian, I think she was, or French — I really 
don’t know which ; only a foreigner I am almost sure 
she was, or pretended to be, and her first name I remem- 
ber very well was Angelina.” 

“More romantic still,” said Jessie. “And what did 
they do after their marriage ? Live on love, I suppose.” 

“ They kept it secret a good w^hile, until at last both 
disappeared together ; and a great talk there w\as about 
it at the time. Rebecca says all Bath was up. But, 
like other wonders, I suppose it died away.” 


THE SECRET. 


327 


“ And what then ?” 

“Rebecca’s uncle had to leave his place in conse- 
quence, and set up for himself in business at a small 
place somewhere in that neighborhood. I can not think 
what the name of that place was. Dear me ! I had it 
not a minute ago.” 

“ Oh ! never mind the place. Tell me something more 
about my namesake, Mr. Thompson. Do you know any 
thing more ?” 

“ Yes. Some three years afterward, Rebecca’s uncle 
was written to by the young man to ask if his wife — for 
he was married then — could take charge of a little child 
whose mother was dead.” 

“Dpon my word, aunt, you ought to put your story 
together, and make a three-volume novel of it. I never 
heard any thing better ; and then that charming name — 
I mean the foreign lady’s.” 

“ Angelina ?” 

“Yes, you could never beat that. You say shq 
died ?” 

“ She did. It was but a miserable kind of match, as 
you may suppose. A selfish, scheming woman they say 
she was. Most foreigners, you know, are.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ Nay, I don’t know that there is much more to tell. 
The thing has quite blown over now, they say, and no. 
body seems to know any thing about it in Bath.” 

“ They will know when your novel comes out,” said 
Jessie, laughing. 

“ Well, as the name was Thompson, I thought you 
might like to hear all about it.” 

“ Oh yes, thank you, aunt. I like it very much. But 
now, don’t you want your negus? You shall see how 
well I can make it for you. There is nobody who can 
do these things better than I can now.” 


328 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


Jessie made the negus rather strong ; and, by the time 
the old lady had sipped to the bottom of her glass, her 
eyes were so weighed down with sleep, that Jessie 
thought it best to prop her head with a pillow, wrap her 
in a warm shawl, and let her remain in the easy-chair by 
the fire for the remainder of the night. 

The old lady slept rather uneasily, but still she slept ; 
and thus the long night wore away without Jessie’s feel- 
ing quite so lonely as she had anticipated. She had been 
a little beguiled by the minuteness of her aunt’s long 
story, for it was drawn out so as to be very long ; but 
she thought no more of it in the morning, when every 
one was kindly inquiring about how she felt, and how 
she had borne the unwonted privation of a sleepless 
night. This was quite an event to Jessie, and she dwelt 
upon it with great complacency, as if she had performed 
some remarkable feat or act of heroism, which invested 
her with both interest and importance. 

The enjoyment which Jessie derived from this source 
was a little damped by the arrival of letters that day. 
Her enjoyment was always damped when she thought 
of home, and of herself, in what she considered her neg- 
lected condition there. To-day, however, there was 
something really to be concerned about, for her hus- 
band’s letter told of the spread of the fever, of his own 
exertions by night and day, and of fears which he enter- 
tained that some cases near home should assume the 
character of typhus. All this he wrote in a hurried, ir- 
regular manner, concluding with an earnest, an almost 
imperative charge, that his wife would not think of re- 
turning until he should pronounce it to be safe. 

Many thoughts flashed across Jessie’s mind as she 
read this letter. What if her husband should catch the 
fever ? What if it should be all a contrivance to keep 
her away? She became restless, agitated — knew not 


THE SECEET. 


329 


■what to think. The only relief from present suffering 
which she could devise was to set off home immediately. 
She forgot that she had been up all night — forgot her 
aunt’s story — forgot her father even. At last she de- 
cided to await the next day’s post, and in the mean time 
to do the only wise thing that remained to her — to try 
to get a little rest. 

For this purpose Jessie retired to her room, shut her- 
self in, drew down the blinds, and made all as dark and 
secluded as she could. But there was no sleep for her 
— no rest. Great waves of thought kept rushing in upon 
her like the waves of the sea after a storm, some bring- 
ing fragments of wreck, some bitter weeds, and some the 
terrible evidence of death having been at work under the 
most frightful and appalling circumstances. 

In the midst of this hurry of thought and confusion of 
feelings, one impression remained clear to Jessie — that 
if her husband shoidd be ill she must go home, whatever 
he might say, or direct to be said, to the contrary. She 
could leave her parents now with the utmost propriety. 
Her father remained very much in the state in which she 
had found him — he might continue the same for a con- 
siderable time: no immediate change was apprehended 
now. Besides which, she wanted to be at home ; and 
with a sudden gush of tenderness, which brought tears 
to her eyes, Jessie buried her face in the pillow, and at 
last wept herself to sleep. 

On the following morning a letter was given to J essie, 
the handwriting of which she did not recognize. It was 
like a school-girl’s— yes, it was Lina’s— very short, and 
evidently written in secret on her own responsibility. 

“ I think it right to tell you,” she said in the letter, 
‘^that the doctor is very ill. He does not want you to 
come, because he is so afraid you should take the fever ; 
and, indeed, many people have it all around us— some 


330 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


very severely, and some are dead. The doctor has work- 
ed very hard, both night and day ; but he does not leave 
his bed now, and Dr. Jordon, who comes to see him very 
often, tells us it is the fever. He says himself it is a very 
mild attack, and that he shall soon be out again. It may 
be so ; but still I thought I ought to let you know. So 
pray forgive me if I have done wrong.” 

Jessie lost not a moment in hesitation. She could 
pack without help now, or do any thing else that was 
necessary. Her countenance showed that she was in 
heavy trouble, though she spoke few words, and none of 
distress ; and there was once more light in her eye, and 
clearness on her brow, because she was right now'- — all 
right; and she took leave of her parents, and set out on 
her journey alone, with that perfect calmness which be- 
comes habitual with those who accustom themselves to 
do right, and only right. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Jessie accomplished her journey home without ever 
being aware of its difficulties. Indeed, there were no real 
difficulties to encounter ; but the length of time it re- 
quired, and the hours which had necessarily to elapse 
before she could ascertain the real state of things at 
home, were all the annoyance of which she was sensible. 
When, at last, she reached her own door, the astonish- 
ment of the servants was extreme ; and they looked, in- 
deed, as if half disposed not to admit her into the house, 
so unfit a person did they evidently consider her to enter 
where there were sickness and trouble. 

That may truly be called a melancholy state of things 
where the mistress of a house is received back into her 
place as an additional trouble, rather than a help. Jessie 
felt this in all its humiliation, for she had been growing 


THE SECEET. 


331 


proud of her recently developed capabilities ; and she 
was always eager to reap the credit of what she could 
do, even before it was done. 

The servants said they had the strictest orders not to 
let any one enter the doctor’s room, except those who 
had been there from the first. 

“And who has been there?” asked Jessie. 

“ The nurse, and — ” 

“And who ?” 

“ Why, Miss, to be sure,” said Mabel, always predis- 
posed to speak. “ Some people must always be throw- 
ing themselves in the way, and getting into danger, and 
then having to be nursed and taken care of.” 

But Jessie was gone — out of hearing of these familiar- 
sounding words, which, to do her justice, she was not 
wanting to hear now. Going first into her own room, 
and disengaging herself from all outside wrappings, she 
next stole silently into the chamber which her husband 
had chosen to occupy, as being most detached from 
other parts of the house. Here all was so still that she 
felt almost afraid to enter. The ear of the sick man 
was, however, quick to catch every sound, and with his 
hand he put back the curtain of the bed as Jessie en- 
tered. 

“ Oh !” he exclaimed, “ you should not have come. 
But it is over now;” and, with a pleased expression 
stealing over his pale face, he stretched out both his 
arms, and clasped his wife to his bosom. 

“ Fool that I am !” said he, almost pushing her away, 
the next moment — “ worse than fool ! Oh ! Jessie, why 
did you come ?” 

“ I came to nurse you,” she replied. 

“ You !” And the doctor actually laughed, for he had 
no very exalted idea of his wife’s nursing. “ Well, they 
must take care of you,” he said, “ for I am but a poor 
creature just now.” 


332 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


“I am afraid,” said Jessie, “there is but little chance 
of your being better for some time yet.” 

“Not for some days,” said her husband, “certainly. 
But you see I am taking it very easily. I hardly think I 
need have kept in bed at all, only for the sake of example, 
and because I go about preaching to others.” 

“ We shall see,” said Jessie, “how you get on after- 
ward. I fancy that is often the greatest trial.” 

“ You !” said the doctor again, very much disposed to 
laugh. “What do you know about it? It is worth 
something, though, to have you to look at. But, for 
goodness’ sake, take care and observe faithfully all that I 
tell you.” 

Here the doctor began to prescribe with great minute- 
ness, telling Jessie of so many precautions to be observed 
for the preservation of that precious life of hers, that she 
grew tired of listening, and turned to other subjects, for 
she wanted to heap of much that had transpired during 
her absence. 

So deeply had Jessie been interested in the one ab- 
sorbing anxiety which had brought her home, that she 
had scarcely bestowed even common attention upon Lina, 
who was seated in the room when she first entered, but 
rose and went out almost immediately. Something struck 
Jessie, just in a passing way, like unusual paleness in the 
girl’s face ; but she said nothing about it until an hour 
afterward, when, in an interview with Mabel, she learned 
that “ Miss had fancied herself poorly for the last day or 
two, but — ” 

“ I suppose she can take the fever as well as others,” 
said Jessie. 

“Fee-ver!” said Mabel, with a look of inefiable con- 
tempt. It is strange how such people will not let any 
one be poorly whom they dislike. “ She’s got no fever. 
It’s only with being up at nights, and creeping forever 


THE SECRET. 


333 


in and out of master’s room. And yet she’s good for 
nothing when she is there, nurse says — nothing in the 
world, no more than a babby.” 

But Jessie was not disposed just now for continuing 
this kind of colloquy, and the disappointed Mabel went 
down stairs, murmuring to herself as she went, “ Mercy 
on us ! The world’s all turned upside down, it seems to 
me. What’s to come next, I wonder ?” 

Although Jessie would not listen to what her servant 
had to say, there was still the same voice within her own 
heart, to which she listened as before ; and this voice 
now whispered, that another had usurped her place while 
she was absent ; had been admitted to her husband’s 
presence while he was keeping her away ; and had been 
wasting her strength in his service, so far as she knew 
how, while she was looking, as she saw in her glass, un- 
scathed, unruffled, and, if she would have owned it, as 
fine a specimen of health as any eye could desire to gaze 
upon. Surely there was work to be got out of that vig- 
orous frame yet — something like service to the human 
family — something like help for the wants and the woes 
now gathering thickly around her. 

On the following morning Lina was missed from her 
accustomed place — first in the doctor’s room, before the 
dim . light of morning had disturbed any other of the 
household. He was himself the first to observe this, and 
sent the nurse to look after her. The nurse reported 
that she was quite well — only thought, as Mrs. Thomp- 
son had returned, there was no need for her to come into 
the room. 

This sounded rather strange, and the doctor was not 
satisfied. Yet whom could he send to ascertain the 
truth ? Blind as he generally was to most of what lay 
beneath the surface of his domestic life, he could not be 
wholly insensible to the prejudice prevaihng against this 


334 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


girl, nor quite unaware that, when women are prejudiced, 
they lose their natural quickness of apprehension on the 
side of sickness or suffering. Most certainly he could 
not ask his wife to ascertain this delicate point for him. 
So he was compelled to wait, and he did so with the less 
impatience, that his own illness was increasing upon him, 
and threatening to overpower all other anxieties in the 
one grievous apprehension to him, that he should become 
totally disqualified for taking any part in those public 
measures which the state of the jail and the neighbor- 
hood rendered so important at the present time. 

But if the slender figure of the pale girl did not steal 
into the doctor’s room as usual that morning, to whisper 
to the nurse her anxious inquiries about how he had 
spent the night, there was another step — a most unex- 
pected one — scarcely perceptible, though it came many 
times during the night like the visitations of a spirit, or 
like something in a dream. And the patient thought, 
now and then, that he had been only dreaming ; for the 
face that peeped past the curtain was so like his wife’s, 
and yet it was so unlikely that she should break her rest, 
and risk her health to come. He little knew that sleep 
never once visited her eyes that night, that her pillow 
was scarcely ^Dressed, that strange thoughts were too 
busy with her brain for sleep, and new feelings too busy 
with her heart for repose. 

Jessie had seen what she did not allow herself to ex- 
press in words — how ill her husband really was. He 
would not acknowledge it to her, but he knew that the 
worst stage of the fever was rapidly approaching, and 
that he might soon lose the power of conversing with 
her in any rational or collected manner. Yet he seem- 
ed to have nothing to say— nothing but little playful ex- 
pressions of affection, such as thus far in her experience 
Jessie had been only too well pleased to hear. How, 


THE SECRET. 


335 


however, she was sensible of a change in herself, no less 
than in her circumstances. She wanted now to be 
something more to her husband than a child — a toy. 
She wanted, in fact, to get at the real heart of the man 
— to know what life actually was to him, and death. 
She did not want to be forever dallying on the surface 
of both, as it seemed to her now that her whole past had 
been. 

In order to penetrate this surface, Jessie would glad- 
ly have taken her place beside her husband, and sat there 
until some opening should occur for speaking more earn- 
estly than she was accustomed to speak ; but ever as she 
felt impelled to do this, there rushed into her mind the 
strange mystery about that girl — for a mystery she was 
now sure there was — a secret, something kept purposely 
from her, yet understood by them both. And how, she 
asked herself with burning cheeks and flashing eyes — 
she asked herself, as she had done a thousand times be- 
fore, how should there be a secret unless a guilty secret ? 
Her husband’s character she acknowledged to be, both 
in public and private, most unlike that of a guilty man. 
Lina, too, looked innocent almost to a fault ; but then 
the doctor had lived a long life before she knew him, and 
seldom if ever spoke to her of the past ; and as to the 
girl’s innocence, those seeming angels were always the 
worst deceivers. 

Oh, how Jessie hated herself for these thoughts, which 
still, among all her better aspirations, rushed in upon her 
soul, and poisoned all the spring’s tenderness for oth- 
ers, and of hope for herself! She hated herself with a 
peculiar hatred that night, and went again and again 
into her husband’s room, with a vague idea that some- 
thing might perhaps transpire to enable her to strip off 
at once and forever whatever was deceptive or unreal in 
her present condition, so that she might see and know 
the worst. 


336 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


Each time, however, Jessie had seen that her husband 
was very ill — she thought increasingly ill — and she had 
shrunk from interrupting that stillness and quiet, which 
the doctors who attended him had insisted upon as most 
important to his recovery. The present was certainly 
no time for introducing any agitating subject ; yet, if 
the fever should increase, and delirium ensue? If — 
There were contingencies involved in these inquiries of 
a nature too agonizing to be contemplated ; and thus 
it was that Jessie remained sleepless and unsatisfied 
throughout the whole night, not knowing — scarcely dar- 
ing to think what might be before her — not fully antici- 
pating the worst, yet so conscious of being in no way 
prepared to meet it, that the bare idea of what was even 
possible under existing circumstances sent a chill and a 
horror through her whole frame, which made her go 
again into her husband’s room to give one more look, in 
order to reassure herself that he was still living and in the 
possession of his senses. 

Jessie had never sjioken all through the night, either 
to the patient or the nurse. When the morning came 
she saw for herself that the disease was making progress. 
A physician — a friend of her husband’s — called early, but 
did not say much about his opinion of the case ; for such 
was the general impression respecting Jessie that no one 
looked upon her as a woman to be dealt with openly and 
rationally. Her calm and intelligent look, when spoken 
to by this gentleman, might certainly have justified a 
dilSerent opinion ; but for this time, at least, he went 
away without speaking in any definite manner respect- 
ing her husband’s real state. 

Toward noon that day there began to be a general 
wonder throughout the house that Lina did not make 
her appearance, and at last Jessie went into her rooru 
to see for herself what could be the cause. The girl 


THE SECEET. 


Z31 


scarcely spoke in answer to any inquiries about herself, 
but asked with eager interest about the doctor. She 
wanted nothing, she said, and persisted in calling her- 
self quite well and comfortable, but she made no at- 
tempt to get up, and Jessie observed a strange dark- 
ness about her eyes, which looked hollow and sunk, as 
well as a changed appearance, altogether beyond what 
she thought could be accounted for by only one night’s 
indisposition. 

Jessie consulted the nurse; but the woman, tainted 
with the prejudice of the kitchen, said she had observed 
nothing, and thought, if only the young lady would get 
up and exert herself, it would be seen that very little 
was the matter with her. “ There was so much in giv- 
ing way.” 

“Not in a case of typhus fever,” Jessie thought; and 
she began now very seriously to fear that she should 
soon have two cases upon her hands of no ordinary re- 
sponsibility ; for, though the girl could be nothing to 
her personally, it was impossible to get rid of the con- 
viction that, in proportion as she was slighted by others, 
or only grudgingly supplied with common attention, she 
■would become to herself a serious and peculiar charge, 
with no mingling of affection to give tenderness or inter- 
est to the duties from which there was no escape. 

In proportion as Jessie’s cares increased, the power of 
communicating with her husband, so as to obtain aid 
from his judgment and experience, diminished. Already 
it had become unsuitable to call his attention to any ques- 
tion requiring thought. Jessie fancied sometimes he was 
ill at ease, in mind as well as body. She observed that 
he looked every now and then inquiringly about the 
room; yet, while she guessed the meaning of these indi- 
cations of anxiety, she felt afraid to break that spell of 
silence and reserve which had lately enveloped one par- 

P 


338 


CHAPTEKS ON WIVES. 


ticular subject between her husband and herself, by so 
much as appearing to understand what was harassing his 
mind. If he chose to speak, well and good ; but if he 
wished her still to stand aloof, a stranger to his inmost 
feelings, she could do so^ — yes, even to the hour of death. 
What woman can not ? 

So there was no intimate or close communication even 
now — only thanks on the part of the husband for atten- 
tions kindly rendered by the wife, with a little flattering 
pleasantry now and then; but no allusion to his real 
state — no charge in case of fatal termination — no treat- 
ment of his wife as if she was really a comfort and a 
help — ^no mention of that past, nor of that future beyond 
the grave, which, whether now or distant, must await 
them both. 

Jessie would have given worlds to be able or permit- 
ted to speak on some of these subjects, which pressed 
upon her now so heavily that her very heart was aching 
for utterance ; but where such themes have never been 
discussed with grave interest between man and wife in 
time of health — when a barrier has consequently grown 
up between them and the mutual expression of all feel- 
ing on such points, it is not likely that the barrier should 
be broken down on a sick-bed ; neither would the let- 
ting in such a mighty, but long pent-up river be always 
appropriate at such a time. 

So the keen, searching eyes went wandering round the 
room, though the parched lips never spoke; and Jessie 
sat still and wondering, almost paralyzed at times with 
awe and dread ; for she saw that the dim curtain was 
being let down over her husband’s mind, that his faculties 
were becoming in a slight degree disordered, and she 
could not but feel it was quite possible he might never 
be able to speak to her rationally again. 

How difierent was her position now from what it 


THE SECEET. 


339 


would have been had she ever fully shared her husband’s 
confidence, and fully known his heart ! There, is some- 
thing ennobling — something which bears the weak spirit 
up by its own intrinsic greatness, in the situation of a 
wife who has been a true helpmeet — a real sharer in her 
husband’s heart and life — a faithful adviser in his tem- 
poral concerns — a still more faithful friend — alternate 
child to learn, and counselor to instruct, in all matters 
of spiritual and eternal interest. There is something al- 
most grand, though terrible, and very sweet amid all its 
agony, in the situation of a wife who thus waits by the 
sick-bed of her husband to receive, it may be, the whole 
burden of that responsibility which hitherto she has only 
shared, yet shared so nobly that she feels, with God’s 
help, a certain lowly sense of capability for sustaining it 
even alone in its full measure of importance. And thus, 
because it has been his, for his sake she takes the great 
burden up, rejecting no single portion which he thouglit 
worthy of being borne ; but rather gathering into her 
weak arms all the vast amount, jealous lest any single 
duty, however trivial in appearance, should escape, and 
so be left undone. 

How can a husband leave his wife a more precious 
legacy than this, making her his true executor, intrusted 
with the carrying out of his will in all things wherein 
his honor or his principles have been most concerned ? 

And nobly indeed have women of all ranks and cir- 
cumstances often discharged this sacred trust — weak 
women becoming strong by the greatness of their work 
— sorrowing women becoming cheerful with the joy of 
performing it aright — lowly women becoming wise un- 
der the manifold requirements of what they have to do 
— good women becoming holy in the sanctity which 
death has imparted to every motive and to every act. 


340 


CHAPTEKS ON WIVES. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Jessie had none of these higher consolations to bear 
her up — consolations which belong to the exalted posi- 
tion just described. She had, however, active duty, 
which is no mean solace, ouly that in her case it Tvas an 
experiment tried too late, and consequently productive 
of but a small portion of the satisfaction with which it is 
sometimes attended. 

Xo one who had only seen Jessie in her indulged and 
idle state could have believed her to be the same person 
who now went, with unhesitatiug step, from room to 
room, even where danger to herself was most imminent 
— shrinking from nothing, escaping from no privation — 
actually taking her place before the nurse in promptness 
and decision, and scarcely behind her in management 
and resource. For Jessie, half in play and half in vani- 
ty, had been learning her lesson -well, though little 
dreaming for what purpose the teaching was intended. 
She had found new faculties, new powers, new strength, 
while attending upon her father, where she looked every 
moment for encouragement and praise ; and now, where 
there was neither, she 'worked a.s eifectually, or more so, 
because there was a certain consolation in action — the 
only one, in fact, which her situation afforded ; and part- 
ly because, in one case at least, her own happiness, al- 
most her very life was bound up with the life she was 
struggling to preserve. 

It might well be excused to Jessie that she confined 
her own personal attentions almost exclusively to her 
husband, sending the hired attendants most frequently 
into the room where Lina now lay insensible. The doc- 


THE SECRET. 


341 


tors had deemed it right to tell Jessie their opinion of 
this case, which was decidedly unfavorable. But just 
at the time they did so her husband appeared to be so 
ill, that their words made little impression ; and besides, 
what was that girl to her in comparison? Any one 
might take charge of her ; but to leave a single moment 
— perhaps some lucid interval — some look of recognition 
— some word of tenderness on the part of her husband, 
seemed to J essie now a loss too great to be endured. 

Two or three times a day, however, she went hastily 
into the room where the poor girl lay. Here she just 
saw that order was maintained, charged the nurses to be 
punctual in observing all medical directions — observed, 
perhaps, during a moment or two, how the poor uncon- 
scious creature lay and breathed, and then hurried back 
to her husband, without one additional pang of real dis- 
tress at the spectacle she had witnessed. 

Lina was, indeed, most seriously ill. She had been 
ailing for many days previous to Jessie’s return. The 
doctor had observed that she leaned her head upon her 
arms, as if it ached or felt heavy; and although, when 
he questioned her, she assumed a brighter expression of 
countenance, and said she was quite well, it was impos- 
sible for his practiced eye not to detect the lurking 
symptoms of disease. Perhaps the most agitating 
thoughts which haunted his pillow, before his mind be- 
came confused, might relate to her. He kept these, 
however, locked as usual within his own breast. By de- 
grees even this reality faded among others, becoming 
mixed up with the strange creatures of a distempered 
fancy. Not that he was affected in any violent manner. 
He Avas more confused than positively delirious, and lay 
for some days and nights incapable of collected thought 
or continued conversation. At least, so it seemed to 
Jessie, who watched him narrowly; but there might be 


342 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


gleams of thought which he never communicated to her, 
and apprehensions of a nature too acute for words. 

However this might be, Jessie knew nothing beyond 
what she saw. She might almost be said to care for 
nothing 'but to know that with her husband the worst 
was j^ast, so intense had become her anxiety during the 
critical stage of his illness. This most welcome fact was 
at length announced to her by the medical gentleman in 
attendance, who added to his cheering intelligence a few 
hints respecting the condition of the younger patient, 
which were far from encouraging. He even ventured to 
ask, on the following day, if she had any parents or near 
relatives, who ought to be informed in case of danger. 
At which inquiry Jessie blushed deeply, replying only 
that the young lady was an orphan, her husband’s ward. 

“ I only thought,’’ said the doctor, “ that in case of 
her guardian being incapable of discharging such a duty, 
it might devolve on some one else.” 

Jessie became more embarrassed ; but the doctor, 
anxious only to discharge what devolved upon him, turn- 
ed away, without appearing to notice any thing beyond 
his immediate duty, and in all probability thought no 
more on the subject, for there was business to be done 
just then, in and about the town of Larchfield, sufficient- 
ly onerous to distract all attention from those little mat- 
ters of ordinary gossip, in which it is scarcely to be sup- ' 
posed that even the medical staff are, in times of leisure, 
wholly unconcerned. 

There are very few eagerly anticipated moments of 
relief that bring with them all the gladness they were 
expected to afford. With the joy of again believing 
that her husband’s life was safe, Jessie experienced a re- 
turn of many painful feelings connected with that secret 
which had so sadly interfered with her domestic peace. 

If this poor girl should now be really sinking — pass- 


THE SECRET. 


343 


ing, as it seemed, under her very eyes, rapidly on toward 
the borders of the grave — might not that mystery be ex- 
plained ? Ought she not to try the effect of an appeal 
to the girl herself? What! and stand a humiliated 
woman before her, confessedly ignorant of her husband’s 
secrets, shut out from his confidence, and subordinate to 
some other unknown influence, which she had to ask as 
a favor that a stranger would explain ? No ; she could 
never endure that. So Jessie remained silent still, 
though she went oftener into the sick-room, and some- 
times remained there longer ; for a kind of gloomy awe 
crept about her heart while there, which held her chain- 
ed to the spot, even when she wished to be away. 

Jessie saw plainly that a great change had come over 
the countenance of the girl ; and miserable as her living 
presence had often made her, there was something in the 
prospect of her death which made her more miserable 
still. Indeed, all was gloom and darkness now, as well 
as mystery. There was no kind interchange of feeling 
to soften under suffering, or to sustain through the dis- 
charge of arduous duty; for, while Jessie took care that 
all personal services were rendered, and although she 
herself began almost to haunt the room, so often was she 
stealing in on tiptoe or listening at the door, she never 
stooped down, with tender interest, to whisper a word 
of hope or comfort, or showed any other evidence of 
feeling than might have been called forth in the wards 
of a common hospital. 

Though perfectly sensible, the doctor was still too 
weak to be spoken to on any subject of anxiety. Jessie 
dared not even communicate to him what the physician 
had said respecting that more serious case which now 
occupied so much of her attention. Her lips were seal- 
ed, but her heart beat heavily as she passed from room 
to room, dreading, each time she entered Lina’s, that she 
might witness some fearful change. 


344 


CHAPTEKS ON WIVES. 


The girl, she believed, was sensible, but so silent that 
it was impossible to form any idea of what might be 
passing in her mind. Sometimes her eyes followed Jes- 
sie with a look of intense anxiety, as if she wanted to 
speak, but could not. More than once she had uttered 
a hasty request that Jessie might be asked to come to 
her; but when she came, said nothing — only looked. 
Jessie knew not how to bear the fascination of those 
eyes — so clear, so penetrating — which now looked full 
into hers, and seemed as if searching down into her very 
soul. At times they were so tender, too ; and that ex- 
pression was the worst of all to bear, when they were 
fixed upon her face with a soft, earnest, longing gaze, 
until tears began to dim their sight, and then the eyelids 
closed, and all was still as death. 

Jessie became more interested than she wished to be. 
If the girl should really die, the world would be no 
poorer, Jessie thought ; and surely she herself was not 
chargeable with her soul. It might be well to send for 
a clergyman. She did so, and still the same burden re- 
mained upon her heart — the same fascination still led 
her steps continually into the room — still riveted her feet 
to the spot when she was there. 

“ I wish she had a mother,” said Jessie to herself, 
“ or some one I could send for to be kinder to her than 
these servants are. She seems to want kindness. I 
wonder whether she has ever known much of it.” 

In this manner Jessie sat and pondered to herself in 
silence, while fast the moments flew — the last precious 
moments in which it would be possible to speak. Ah ! 
there are some of us who speak too often, and too much ; 
but are there not death-beds which tell sad tidings of too 
little having been said while there was strength to speak, 
and time and opportunity to profit by what should have 
been said, but never was ? 


THE SECRET. 


345 


The case of this poor girl, though now considered 
hopeless, was more lingering than might have been ex- 
pected. Servants and nurses were all worn out, and 
some were affected with the same malady themselves. 
Jessie, among others, might well have pleaded need of 
rest ; for she was now living and watching in that 
strange, unnatural state which seems to be maintained 
almost by miracle, and as if for some especial object, 
which it is only prolonged for the purpose of carrying 
out. In this state it was that she undertook, on one oc- 
casion, the night watching with Lina, in order that the 
other attendants might enjoy the benefit of rest. Her 
husband was not to know of it, for he had already begun 
to evince a wondering kind of anxiety at seeing Jessie 
so much about ; and not having yet arrived at any ra- 
tional apprehension of the true state of the case, nor how 
much his wife was altered both in feeling and in capabil- 
ity, he had given strict directions to the nurse who at- 
tended in his room that Jessie should be carefully watch- 
ed, and all arrangements made so that her nightly rest 
should never be disturbed. 

For this reason it was that Jessie chose to keep her 
sitting up that night with Lina a secret ; and, as there 
was no longer need for much night watching with her 
husband, every member of the household was permitted 
to retire to rest. 

With the disappearance of one attendant after another, 
and the general hush and stillness of the house as they 
went to their several quarters, Jessie felt a kind of awe 
steal over her, which was much increased by the already 
exhausted state of her own powers, and that nervous ex- 
citement which is almost inseparable from such a condi- 
tion. At such times, every sound and every movement, 
however insignificant in itself, seems to be fraught with 
meaning, which the imagination interprets instead of the 
P2 


346 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


reason; and in Jessie’s situation especially there were 
many causes which combined to render it one of pecul- 
iar solemnity, if not of absolute terror. First among 
these was the absence of all freedom of communication. 
The two beings who occupied that room were as entire- 
ly strangers to each other as if they had never met be- 
fore. They both knew that the great curtain which sep- 
arates time from eternity was about to be withdrawn — 
they both waited, as it were, for the first uplifting of that 
awful veil, and yet neither spoke to the other, nor asked 
if light was davuiing from beyond, nor wished God-speed 
along the dark valley which must so soon be passed. 

Silence, deep and unbroken, reigned throughout the 
house — such silence as comes with the heavy sleep of 
those who have watched until exhausted nature is wea- 
ried out. Jessie felt as if she was the only being actu- 
ally alive beneath that roof, except the one beside her, 
whose breathing might almost at any moment cease. 

When Jessie took leave of her husband for the night, 
he had said he thought he should sleep ; and there was 
every reason to hope that the night would be to him one 
of natural and refreshing repose. So to whatever height 
the vividness of Jessie’s imaginings might rise, or what- 
ever form her fears might assume short of the actual ap- 
proach of death, she felt that her husband must not be 
appealed to, lest the chance of this night’s wholesome and 
necessary refreshment should be lost. Alone, then, she 
was, and must be ; and the dead silence even of the mid- 
night hours she must endure as best she could. 

Whatever fatigue or suffering Jessie had experienced 
up to this time, loneliness, utter loneliness, had never 
been among her trials. Indeed, with her husband there 
had always been some pretense to conversation, though 
it might be at distant intervals, and some appearance of 
familiar recognition, even when no words were spoken. 


THE SECRET. 


347 


But here there was such strangeness — such entire sepa- 
ration of heart from heart — such mystery — that was the 
worst aspect of the case; for Jessie could not help still 
pondering over vague possibilities, and chances of things 
being tru^ which yet were scarcely possible. Glad in- 
deed would she have been to find only a temporary re- 
source from the busy working of her brain in reading. 
But the power to forget herself in a book was no longer 
at her command. Her senses were too vivid for that — 
the whirl of thought too rapid and confused. 

Many times during the night Jessie started at what 
she fancied was a sudden movement of the curtains of 
the bed ; but, on looking round, all was again still, only 
that those eyes were staring — staring full upon her. She 
could not sustain that mesmeric kind of influence which 
seemed to pass from them to her ; so she changed her 
place, and sat where the eyes could not reach her. Here 
she had to stretch out her neck and peep, if she wanted 
to see any one in the bed, and every time she did so the 
idea of meeting those eyes filled her with a new horror. 
At last she determined not to look at all. If any thing 
was wanted she could not fail to know, and the watch on 
the table would indicate when medicine must be given. 

So Jessie sat a long time in such profound stillness, 
that the ticking of the watch was all the sound she 
heard. When suddenly — she could not be mistaken 
now — the curtain did actually move. She heard the 
rustling of the folds, and, looking toward the bed, she 
saw a thin white arm and hand, with poor, lean fingers, 
raised, and beckoning as if for her to go nearer to the bed. 

Trembling all over with a kind of indefinite terror, 
Jessie rose and approached where the arm kept waving 
with something, she thought, like the convulsive move- 
ment of expiring nature. She thought there was also 
an attempt to speak, and she stooped down that she 
might cntHi tho words. 


348 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


“ Is any one there?” said Lina, with a frightened look, 
and in a hollow kind of whisper. 

“No,” said Jessie; “I am alone.” 

“ May I speak to you ?” 

“ Yes ; I wish you would.” ^ 

you wish I would?” 

“ Yes ; that has often been my wish.” 

“Has it? Oh, has it? Well, then, take hold of my 
hand, will you? Ah, how soft and warm yours is — 
how beautiful you are ! But I must make haste. I 
have something to tell you. Surely he won’t be angry 
if I tell you ?” 

“Who?” 

“ He — my father.” 

“Who?” 

“ He is my father — I am his child.” 

Jessie uttered a shriek so loud and piercing, that, but 
for the heavy sleep of those tired watchers, it must have 
brought some of them into the room ; and immediately 
sinking down upon her knees beside the bed, she cover- 
ed her face with her hands, and groaned aloud, “ Too 
late ! too late ! Why did he never tell me ?” were the 
cruel thoughts which wrung this anguish from her soul. 

The thin hand dropped down upon her neck, and there 
the trembling fingers seemed to play and quiver among 
the thick tresses of her hair. Poor little helj)less fingers 
— fond, even now ! Poor empty hand, that never found 
another hand to clasp ! 

Ah ! in that agonizing moment what floods of thought 
rushed like a tempest through Jessie’s mind! And 
among all was that just indignation against wrong to- 
ward herself which seemed to turn her tears to fire. The 
keen, quick sense of what she might have been, of what 
she believed that she should have been under different 
treatment — the sense of cruel loss, as if she had been 


THE SECRET. 


349 


robbed of the best portion of her life and of herself — 
these strong passionate feelings first awoke, and for a 
while shut out the nobler sense of what she ought to 
have done and been, in spite of circumstances. 

And all the while one of those little hands was on her 
neck, the other grasped in hers. It was too late now. 
The womanly heart should have warmed toward the help- 
less creature before.* Womanly pity, so seldom wanting, 
should have opened the fioodgates of mutual confidence. 
What might not then have followed? Perhaps a love 
as close and tender as the estrangement had been distant 
and cold. What might not have been comprehended, 
too, in such a love ? Sister and child, mother and friend 
— all that to both had been so sadly wanting — all that 
would have come like the sweet atmosphere of a better 
life to both. 

Too late indeed ! For death was waiting at the door 
of that young and closely-folded heart, ready to snatch 
the precious bud away unopened. Those long-sealed 
lips were losing the power of utterance now. A shadow 
was stealing over those pale features, on which the sun- 
shine of life had all too rarely fallen. Yet with a strange 
kind of animation, not unfrequently the immediate pre- 
lude of the spirit’s fiight, the poor girl asked to be 
raised, and to have more air, in order that she might 
speak. 

In the act of raising her head Jessie saw how very 
near the final change was coming. She did not think, 
at that moment, of communicating with her husband. 
She did not wish for help, and the two remained alone. 
Half supporting the feeble figure in her arms, she could 
hear every word, however faintly uttered ; and she found 
there was a painful struggle to say more than it was pos- 
sible to utter. 

“ I wish I could speak for you,” said Jessie kindly. 


350 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


“ He will tell you all,’* said the feeble voice — “ my fa- 
ther. Ah ! if I might but have called you mother — 
elder sister — only something dear !” 

“ I would have been all that to you,” said Jessie, “ if I 
had but known.” 

“ I wish you would have let me love you,” said the 
poor girl, her weak arms trying to clasp Jessie’s neck. 
“ I did so want somebody to love.” 

“You only show me what I have lost,” exclaimed 
Jessie, unable to bear this innocent reproach. “May 
God forgive me, and have mercy on my soul !” 

“That is the prayer for me,” said the girl. “May 
God forgive me ! Do you think he will ?” 

“ I believe him to be all-merciful.” 

“ But you say it is too late.” 

“ Too late with me, but not with God. With him it 
never is too late while there are life and feeling left.” 

“ I wish you would pray for me.” 

“ My child ! I am a sinful creature, not fit to pray for 
you.” 

“Oh! call me your child again. I wish I was your 
child. I could have loved you so !” 

“ Ah ! but there is One to love and think of now, who 
can be more to you, even yet, than I could ever have 
been through long, long years.” 

“I know whom you mean — Jesus, the blessed Sav- 
ior.” 

“ It is of Him I want you to think.” 

“ I have been thinking of Him — perhaps dreaming — I 
don’t quite know how it was ; but such a glorious sight 
I saw, and such a voice I heard ! The words I can not 
tell : all I remember clearly is, ‘ What thou doest^ do 
quickly P So I beckoned you to come, that I might tell 
you all, for I knew it was right that you should be told. 
And now, if he, my father, should be angry, tell him it 


THE SECBET. 


351 


was his child’s last act of duty to him and you — ^perhaps 
the only really good act she ever did. But what is this ? 
You are weeping ! Is it for me?” 

“ Perhaps for us both.” 

“N’ay, never weep for me. I am only like a stray 
flower — a weed that stole into your garden. I should 
never have been worth much to you. At least, I sup- 
pose not, for I never have been to any body. Only I 
know I coidd have loved you — oh, so tenderly ! — if you 
would have let me. But we won’t speak of that now. 
I want to look into your eyes a little, and to feel your 
arm under me. Is it under me ? Oh ! hold me up — 
I’m going ! Now pray — ^do pray, and let me die so.” 

Jessie knew not what she said. She never thought 
of Avords ; but if ever a true heart-appeal Avas wrung 
from human voice hers had that claim, at least, to being 
heard. Once having found utterance for those feelings 
which have no real language but in prayer, she could say 
kind, cheering Avords of hope as well as love, which fell 
sweetly on the failing senses of the dying girl, though 
she only responded by a closer embrace, until at length 
the clasp of the feeble hands relaxed, and, as the head 
sank quietly back, Jessie saw that the dimness of death 
Avas stealing over the eyes, and that the last struggle of 
expiring nature would soon be over. 

Happily there was no struggle — only increasing faint- 
ness, and a lingering look from the darkened counte- 
nance which could not be mistaken. Jessie felt unable 
to move aAvay until all should be over; but she Avished 
noAV that her husband could be called, and turning her 
head to see whether any means were at hand by which 
the inmates of the house might be summoned, she saAV, 
half Avay between the door and the bed a figure stand- 
ing — a tall white figure, which might well have been 
mistaken for some spiritual messenger, waiting for the 


852 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


departure of the soul just liberated from its earthly 
bonds. 

Jessie expressed no alarm. So deep a sense of awe 
had been within and around her as scarcely could have 
been increased by any visitation from the spiritual world. 
She knew, however, in another moment, that it was her 
husband who stood beside her. He alone of all the 
household had heard the shriek which Jessie uttered; 
and, supposing it to have been caused by some alarming 
manifestation of the near approach of death, he had 
risen in his weak state, and tlirowing over him what he 
could first lay hold of, had crept with feeble and almost 
silent steps into the room at the time when his wife was 
kneeling by the bed, and burying her face in the clothes. 

The first words which struck his ear convinced him 
that his secret had been told. The agony of his wife, 
the earnestness of the dying girl, the consciousness in his 
own mind of the wrong course he had been pursuing, all 
combined to arrest his steps ; and he remained like one 
paralyzed, unable to speak or move ; but in this condi- 
tion receiving, deeply impressed uj)on his soul, the full 
meaning of that most touching scene which owed its 
poignant agony almost entirely to him. 

Too late! too late! How did his heart respond to 
those sad words, and what would he not at that moment 
have given to recall the past — to receive back again into 
his bosom those who had been committed to him — wife 
and child — without a cloud between them — without a 
secret in his heart or home ! 

That struggle of expiring nature, which Jessie had at 
one time so much feared, was not permitted to shake the 
tender frame of the dying^girl. The spirit passed with 
no more painful evidence of its departure than gently 
suspended breath. Not even in the sudden shock of be- 
holding her husband so unexpectedly had Jessie relin- 


THE SECEET. 


353 


quished her hold of the sinking form. But all was over 
now, and as she quietly laid down the head, adjusted 
the hair, and smoothed the pillow, she felt her husband’s 
arm steal round her ; and although neither husband nor 
wife could utter a single word, they were soon enfolded 
in an embrace which afforded the best omen of entire 
reconciliation. 

Estrangement such as theirs, however, and wrong, and 
secrecy — which in married life is, perhaps, the greatest 
wrong — was not to be overcome by one embrace. That 
pale and now senseless figure, with her young face pre- 
maturely withered like a young flower-bud which ungen- 
ial airs and cloudy skies have never permitted to expand 
— that crushed heart, now still forever, which they should 
have warmed and cherished, and done their best to feed 
with the bread of life — that form was at once the dumb 
witness of their true repentance, and the solemn pledge 
of a future to them which should never have to be re- 
pented of. 

But there was the world to meet again — perhaps more 
difiicult still, they had each other to meet — to meet face 
to face with true heart and earnest purpose, and, so far 
as possible, with entire forgetfulness of the past. All 
this would have to be the work of time. Ah ! if we 
could only act our virtues out as we design them, in a 
moment, by the bed of death, or while some great agony 
is transpiring, and shrouding like the passing tempest all 
minor things in obscurity. It is on the morrow that the 
trial comes, or the day after, when neighbors have drop- 
ped in, and little speeches have been made, and curious 
questions asked, and when distorted fragments of the 
world’s opinion have come round us again like bees when 
the sun shines forth after a shower, each armed with lit- 
tle stings and tiny globules of sharp venom. 

It is not to be supposed that through these after-days 


354 


CHAPTEES ON WIVES. 


all things went smoothly with Jessie and her husband. 
In common honesty it ought, perhaps, to be confessed 
that Jessie, woman-like, would have her say — would, 
once for all, speak out touching the injury and wrong 
her husband had done her in excluding her from his con- 
fidence, even while he seemed to love her. More than 
once she even ventured to describe such love as little 
worth, and would insist upon his believing how much 
wiser and better as a woman she would have been under 
more rational and worthy treatment ; while, on the other 
hand, he, man-like, retorted by saying that she had never 
interested herself, nor read his books, nor followed his 
pursuits, nor, in short, evinced any other desire than to 
be admired, and loved, and cared for. In this respect he 
had not failed — indeed, he had denied her nothing. 

Sweet consolation that — to have been denied nothing ! 
But every one knows too w^ell what can be said on such 
occasions. "VYith Jessie and her husband the upbraid- 
ings were few, the bitterness of short duration. They 
had each learned a lesson which life might be too short 
to practice. The precious time, perhaps too short to be 
redeemed, they could not afibrd to waste. The ground 
they had mutually lost must be recovered by an earnest- 
ness which admitted of no trifling; and especially that 
confidence, for the want of which their happiness had 
been so nearly wrecked, must now be preserved with a 
solicitude which no passing moment or event should 
ever divert from its legitimate object. 

In order to establish this confidence on a sure founda- 
tion, no time was lost in making Jessie acquainted with 
those circumstances which had thrown a veil of mystery 
over her married lot. With a clear conscience and an 
open brow, her husband told her all. He might have 
told her all at first. There was nothing more criminal 
than an early, ill-judged, secret marriage, most unhappy 


THE SECEET. 


355 


to tell of. But the same natural pride and hatred of 
prying curiosity — the same reserve, with regard to his 
own personal matters, which in maturer life had charac- 
terized the man, had, when a youth, driven him to the 
extreme of suffering, and almost want, rather than to 
making a clear explanation to his parents and friends of 
the first rash step and its calamitous consequences. 

The marriage which the doctor had formed w’hile yet 
scarcely more than a boy was degrading, as well as mis- 
erable. All artful woman of great personal attractions, 
but of low principles and mean habits, had lived long 
enough as his wife to make such demands upon his pe- 
cuniary resources as it was impossible for him to supply, 
without falling under suspicions perhaps more degrading 
to his character than even such a connection would have 
been considered. Hence followed family disputes, alien- 
ation, mystery, with endless schemes for subterfuge and 
concealment — all most ruinous to the character and prin- 
ciples of a young man just entering upon life. What 
might have been the extent of ruin following as an in- 
evitable consequence of such a system long pursued, it 
would be impossible to conceive. Before the expiration 
of three years, however, the unhappy woman died. There 
was truth in the old aunt’s story; for she left a child, 
who was carefully, though humbly nurtured, until the 
time for sending her to school, where she remained until 
supposed to be qualified for entering a situation as gov- 
erness. Such a situation had been obtained for her at 
Brighton, where, however, her health entirely failed ; and 
it was under the difficulty of not knowing what to do in 
such circumstances that the doctor had first listened to 
that proposal which ended in Lina, his daughter, being 
introduced into the house as companion to his wife. 

The recital of these events connected with his past 
life called forth no reproach on the part of Jessie. She 


356 


CHAPTERS ON WIVES. 


could thoroughly and sincerely pity him here, for the ca- 
lamitous mistake into which he had been betrayed. It 
was the secret kept from her so long which she resented, 
especially while he placed her under circumstances in 
which she ought to have known the whole truth. These 
reproaches, however, as already said, were soon entirely 
discontinued. The subject of injury was never alluded 
to after the first outbreak of indignant feeling. Had her 
husband been quite well and strong, it is just possible 
that Jessie’s indignation might have been longer in sub- 
siding ; but whether owing to this shock to his feelings, 
or to some other cause, he did not recover from the 
fever as had been anticipated. Something like a relapse 
came on, and for many weeks he remained so far from 
well as to be unable to pursue his accustomed avoca- 
tions. 

It may well be supposed what anxiety this long delay 
would cause the doctor, because he was now able to hear 
of all that was transpiring in the neighborhood, and was 
even consulted about measures for the public good, with- 
. out being able to render any personal assistance. There 
were sick families, especially among the poor, in whose 
welfare he was deeply interested. And thus it came 
about by degrees that Jessie began to be associated 
with her husband in such matters, actually sent out 
sometimes to see after his humble friends, and always 
welcomed back again from such errands with a pride 
and a joy of which any embassador might have been 
proud. 

But Jessie was not proud now. That fault was well- 
nigh cured, and with it many others. A long season of 
afiiiction, and no small share of hard practical duty, had 
wrought a blessed change in Jessie. With the exception 
of that speaking of her mind to which allusion has been 
made, there was so little left of her old habits and feel- 


THE SECRET. 


357 


ings, that sometimes she felt scarcely to know herself. 
It did not enter her mind to consider herself a better 
woman. She only knew that she was happier, and she 
thanked her Heavenly Father devoutly for that, as well 
as for making her more useful to her fellow-beings. 

With Jessie the change was practical, as well as deep. 
She seemed to arise and shake herself from all the dust, 
and cobwebs, and entanglements of her former state. 
The first domestic measure she adopted, after the funer- 
al services were over, was to call up Mabel, the house- 
keeper, and to request her to suit herself with another 
situation at her earliest convenience. Jessie had felt the 
insidious power of this woman’s tongue, and she was 
humbled at the recollection of the influence it had some- 
times exercised over her own feelings. Every thing' 
must be got rid of now that was in any way involved in 
the entanglements of the past. Jessie wanted a clear 
course — a broad, open path, in which she might walk 
with the blessed sunshine of God’s truth upon her head. 
She had always loved truth. Her natural tendencies 
were not toward falsehood or deception, and she had 
never loathed herself so much as w^hen she watched or 
suspected others. This had been in a manner forced 
upon her, and there was truth in her words wdien she 
said that she might have been a better, as w^ell as a hap- 
pier ^voman, if she had been more worthily treated — 
made a rational companion, not a mere toy. 

But those days were past now, and gradually the re- 
proaches of the heart also died away as entirely as if they 
Lad never found utterance on the tongue. One of the 
great necessities of Jessie’s nature was now supplied. 
She had ample occupation ; and seeing, to his astonish- 
ment, what a wise, as well as active and efficient woman 
she could be, her husband determined to continue that 
system, if only for her benefit, which had been resorted 


358 


CHAPTEES OIT WIVES. 


to under severe necessity. He saw now what a noble 
woman he had been keeping like a captive in a cage ; 
for captive indeed her better nature had long been. He 
felt now what a companion, what a help he had lost, and 
how comparatively worthless his own life had conse- 
quently been. 

As many of the occupations which now devolved upon 
Jessie led her to the abodes of suffering and want, she 
became acquainted with aspects of human life to which, 
up to this time, she had been almost a total stranger. 
The spectacles she thus witnessed melted her own heart. 
The sympathy they called forth enlarged the circle of 
her being. The need she found for directing and sup- 
porting others in their religious hopes, imparted life and 
elevation to her own. In her ministrations of charity, 
she learned to say and to do what would formerly have 
been regarded as impossible. As one proof of the en- 
tireness of the change which had passed over her, Jessie 
seldom remembered her own beauty, and forgot to look 
for the admiration it had once called forth. Those, how- 
ever, who beheld her going forth on errands of mercy, 
looked at her with astonishment; and often, as they 
spoke one to another of the change in her habits and 
character, declared that to them she looked tenfold more 
beautiful than she had ever looked before. 


THE END. 


I^* Every Number of Harper’s Magazine contains from 20 to 60 pages — and 
from one third to one half more reading — than any other in the country. 


HARPER’S MAGAZINE. 

The Publishers believe that the Ninenteen Volumes of Haeper’s 
Magazine now issued contain a larger amount of valuable and at- 
eractive reading than will be found in any other periodical of the 
day. The best Serial Tales of the foremost Novelists of the time : 
ILevers’ “Maurice Tiernay,” Bulwer Lttton’s “My Novel,’* 
Dickens’s Bleak House” and “Little Dorrit,” Thackeray’s 
“Newcomes” aud “Virginians,” have successively appeared in the 
Magazine simultaneously with their publication in England. The 
?)est Tales and Sketches from the Foreign Magazines have been 
carefully selected, and original contributions have been furnished 
by Charles Reade, Wilkie Collins, Mrs. Gaskell, Miss Mtr- 
LOCH, and other prominent English writers. 

The larger portion of the Magazine has, however, been devoted 
to articles upon American topics, furnished by American writers. 
Contributions have been welcomed from every section of the coun- 
try ; and in deciding upon their acceptaAce the Editors have aimed 
to be governed solely by the intrinsic merits of the articles, irrespect- 
ive of their authorship. Care has been taken that the Magazine 
should never become the organ of any local clique in literature, or 
of any sectional party in politics. 

At no period since the commencement of the Magazine have its 
literary and artistic resources been more ample and varied ; and tho 
Publishers refer to the contents of the Periodical for the past as tho 
best guarantee for its future claims upon the patronage of the Amer- 
ican public. 

TERMS.— One Copy for One Year, $3 00 ; Two Copies for One Year, $5 00; 
Three or more Copies for One Year (each), $2 00; “Harper’s Magazine" and 
“ Harper’s -Weekly," One Year, $4 00. And an Extra Copy^ gratis, for every 
Club of Ten Subsceibees. 

Clergymen and Teachers supplied at Two Dollaes a year. The Semi-An- 
nual Volumes bound in Cloth, $2 50 each. Muslin Covers, 25 cents each. The 
Postage upon Haepee’b Magazine must be paid at the Office where it is received. 
The Postage is Thirty-six Cents a year. 

HARPER & BROTHERS, Pphlishers, Franklin Square. New York, 


HARPER’S WEEKLY. 

A JOURNAL OF CIVILIZATION. 


^ SxxBt'^daBS 3llu0trateir iTamilg J3'eu)0papeiC, 

PRICE FIVE CENTS. 


Harper’s Weekly has now been in existence three years. Dur- 
ing that period no effort has been spared to make it the best possi- 
ble Family Paper for the American People, and it is the belief of 
the Proprietors that, in the peculiar field which it occupies, no ex- 
isting Periodical can compare with it. 

Every Number of Harper’s Weekly contains all the News of 
the week. Domestic and Foreign. The completeness of this de- 
partment is, it is believed, unrivaled in any other weekly publica- 
tion. Every noteworthy event is profusely and accurately illustrated 
at the time of its occurrence. And while no expense is spared to 
procure Original Illustrations, care is taken to lay before the reader 
every foreign picture which appears to possess general interest. In 
a w'ord, the Subscriber to Harper’s Weekly may rely upon ob- 
taining a Pictorial History of the times in which we live, compiled 
and illustrated in the most perfect and complete manner possible. 
It is believed that the Illustrated Biographies alone — of which about 
one hundred and fifty have already been published — are worth far 
more to the reader than the whole cost ot his subscription. 

The literary matter of Harper’s Weekly is supplied by some 
of the ablest writers in the English language. Every Number con- 
tains an installment of a serial story by a first-class author — Bul- 
aver’s “ What will he do with It has appeared entire in its columns; 
one or more short Stories, the best that can be purchased at home 
or abroad ; the besj, Poetry of the day ; instructive Essays on topics 
of general interest ; Comments on the Events of the time, in the 
shape of Editorials and the Lounger’s philosophic and amusing 
Gossip ; searching but generous Literary Criticisms ; a Chess Chron- 
icle ; and full and careful reports of the Money, Merchandise, and 
Produce Markets. 

In fixing at so low a price as Five Cents the price of their paper, 
the Publishers were aware that nothing but an enormous sale could 
remunerate them. They are happy to say that the receipts have 
already realized their anticipations, and justify still further efforts 
to make Harper’s Weekly an indispensable guest in every horns 
throughout the country. 

TERMS.— One Copy for Twenty Weeks, $1 00 ; One Copy for One Year, $2 60 ; 
One Copy for Two Years, $4 00 ; Five Copies for One Year, $9 00; Twelve Cop- 
ies for One Year, $20 00 ; Twenty-five Copies for One Year, $40 00. An Extra 
Cojnj mil be allowedlor every Club of Twelve or Twentt-five Subsceibexs. 

St 714 -4 






















0 I, X y ^ 

XV 0 N C ^ ^ it f . , g 

v'^ 

OQ^ ^ 






0 ^ 




^ 0 « X 

v^ 

r 

= xO o^. > « 

O 



x/i \> 


C- ,N.^ r'- u 

^ » . A .O s 0 " ^0 O » 

^ * 0 ^ ^Ct \>^'^ Z.’^'y ^ « y 'c* 

^ ■’^ . r(\\ , 

O c'^ O aT A'^^ 

y aV ^ ^ 

c«-.v- i!% °o 0 °^,' 



t/“* 




'•^ 4 . V^ = 


V V 

. z 

■* -to - \> '^' 

^ V V^ .V • « . v\<'' 0 




vO 



xV 


5 '' ^ ^ 

* 0 , 

^.(^,;ri,% 'P. 

SH^" ” ‘a'^ ° 1 // 





. 0 ^' . o ^ « ’Cp 
0 ^ je/r79j-. ^ 


0 « k 




<r> xO 

^ 0 N C ^ ^ * s ^ ^ 




•O' 








.0 N 0 7 





.'sy i 

'j- iP **-?^'T'^ 

S ,0- 

\\’ ^ * ‘iy 

.* .v % • 

A ^ ,0 X <\ 

a' ,oNc -f- * ..o’^,-’"* ■•'^, A*' 

* _c-^ ^ O 0 ^/r97n^ ^ ^ vi^ ^ ^ 

’^oo' 

“ <!< -T* ' ' ^°°'<' ■' ^r 




c^ *A , . ^ _ 

/ /, « I ■** A ^o r^ \ '' ' A' 

“* .o’^ .«\''* 



^ .0^ ^ ^ « A 

. - - .i^ V* <5? 

I' %/ 

«X^ o ^ 


cf' y 


^ O N C ^ '/'^ 

f O fl. _ <'* O 


0.V ^ ' ’ « « 




